


Melancholic Brokenness

by Leara, Norimn



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Blackfrost - Freeform, Clintasha - Freeform, F/M, Misery, Roleplay Logs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-02 02:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leara/pseuds/Leara, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Norimn/pseuds/Norimn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months after New York, Natasha and Clint still struggle with coming to terms with New York and its events--more precisely, the damage it has inflicted upon them. Fate isn't kind when Natasha decides Clint's unresolved jealousy compromises her newest mission. But the problem is far from one-way... </p>
<p>RP between Norimn and Leara. </p>
<p>May change title once more is uploaded/revealed!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first part of a long RP between me (Leara) and Norimn.

The rain was pounding on the sole window of the tiny apartment, which SHIELD had supplied. Clint woke with a start from the nightmares, which had plagued him since New York. He sat up and fixed his gaze on the grey-blue horizon, lightened slightly by the rising sun.

Natasha had trouble sleeping of late, but had busied herself with tasks. It wasn't nightmares or terrors that plagued her like they did her partner (yes, she was aware), but a stillness and emotion she had yet to analyze and name. The steady splashes against the window provided sufficient entertainment and distraction. She was staring at it, imagining if it had rained on that terrible day. If the outcome would have been different.

When Clint’s heart had returned to a normal pace and his breathing had slowed down, he looked around the room, searching for something to indicate the time. Instead, his eyes fell on Natasha. "Tasha? What are you doing up so early? It's early, right?" he said, words slightly slurred and gaze unfocused.

"Someplace in the world, yes," she replied jokingly (but her voice betrayed her), removing her gaze from the window, suddenly disinterested. She hadn't noticed that he'd awoken. She rubbed the back of her hands, feeling itchy and cold. She avoided the question as her eyes settled on him in the darkness.

"Someplace," he repeated, looking down at his hands. "Have you... been awake for a long time?" He didn't want to meet her eyes, afraid of what he would find there.

Natasha shrugged. "It was raining when I woke," she commented, hoping it would be enough for him to assume it was recent she'd woken and not after a mere 15 minutes on the bed. It had been raining for the past three hours, but that was London for you. She directed her eyes elsewhere. New York had done that to them. She hadn't liked what Loki had said, but she didn’t doubt her loyalties. And she was _only_ thinking of New York because of the impact it still had on her partner.

"It's always raining in London." He kicked off the blankets with more force than necessary and rose, figuring it was useless trying to fall asleep again. He went to the minuscule kitchen and turned on the tap, splashing some water in his face.  
"Any news from SHIELD?" he asked while drying his hands. In an attempt to escape the nightmares, he worked harder than he used to, and was eager to get something to do in order to clear his mind.

She didn’t move as he went through the crappy apartment. "They confirmed that Sanchez is in London."  
She said nothing else, knowing that if she committed herself to the mission now, she would have no luck sleeping at all. Sanchez wasn’t one of her favorite targets – a notion that was foolish; she wasn’t meant to have any opinions of the men she seduced and bedded - because he was rough. She hadn't told Clint about that. He didn't need to know. They just needed to confirm that Sanchez still believed her to be a Russian singer, not a spy for a government to have intel on his criminal organization. When she'd left, it was been on good terms - as good as Sanchez could be. She shuddered unwillingly at the thought, hurrying to move in fear that Barton had seen. She needed him in case Sanchez _did_ suspect her or had been tipped off. Her espionage had done SHIELD good in the past. SHIELD didn’t care about how she acquired the intel or if she got a couple of bruises in tender places to get it.

"Well, that's something," he said, eyeing her with slight suspicion. He had a feeling that there was something she wasn't telling him, but couldn't quite pinpoint what. So for now, he just played along with SHIELD and acted as the backup he was supposed to be on this mission.  
He took out his bow from the duffel under the bed and unfolded it. Even though they weren't doing anything that required him to be armed right now, it gave him a feeling of security to hold it. It was in instances like that that he questioned whether he had gone paranoid after New York, and oftentimes, he concluded that he had. He shook his head as he realized that his paranoia had affected the way he looked at Natasha as well. Of course she wasn't hiding information from him. Not regarding the mission itself, at least. 

As much as she was willing to admit that she didn't look forward to be reunited with Sanchez, she also hated waiting. After too many missions she had associated it with terrible news to be received. She felt like taking a shower but knew that there was no cause for it. She had showered before going to bed and attempting to sleep. So when the rain ceased, she took the opportunity.  
"Wanna get something from the cafe?" she asked, knowing that a place around the corner served at this hour. Although she doubted they sold breakfast now. She was also aware that they couldn't afford to be spotted together. Aside from being violent and terribly polygamous, Sanchez was also jealous. It had nearly cost a flirtatious clerk his life last time. 

Clint put the bow back under the bed before answering. "Why not," he said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, which was hard when he knew that bringing his bow would seem suspicious, and he didn't feel all too content without it close by. Although he knew very well how to handle a gun, he preferred the bow. He picked up his coat, swung it around in a manner that caused it to slide down his arms and land to rest on his shoulders.

Natasha grabbed the woolen coat and swung it likewise over her cotton top and jeans. She checked her ankle holster almost paranoid before grabbing the keys and leaving. She descended the narrow staircase and was relieved to see that by the time they had made their way to the street, the rain hadn't started again.

Clint couldn't help but press his arm against the side of his jacket every few minutes in order to make sure that the gun was still there. He walked in silence all the way to the café, which was deserted but for the person behind the desk and a single early riser.

Natasha acknowledged the sleepy-eyed waitress - a woman barely out of her teens who was leaning over an astronomy textbook and hurried to their booth to get their orders. Without consulting with the menu, Natasha said: "Tea, please, and… do you still serve stuffed pancakes?"  
Upon confirmation, she finished her order and turned to Clint. A year ago, she would have mouthed off his favorite breakfast food based on his mood, but he had changed (so had she). Before New York, she was an avid coffee drinker. Now she couldn't handle the way her body shook if she ingested the caffeinated beverage. She made sure to add a British accent. Foreigners were noticed.

"Coffee, please. And a cheese sandwich." Unlike Natasha, Clint did very little to conceal his accent. It earned him a look from the waitress, but he didn't care much right now. All he could focus on was the other costumer in the café whose eyes flickered to them every now and then. 

"Talk. He's getting suspicious," she whispered, attempting a smile, rolling her eyes as the heavens broke and rain splashed down. She shivered in response, trying to get her body under control. She avoided eye contact although she knew she shouldn't because she feared that Clint would see the look in her eyes, the one that said _I can't be normal._ 'Give me a gun and I'll shoot whoever you tell me to,' she thought bitterly, happy to have her hands preoccupied when the young waitress, presumably a student working off hours, came with the coffee and tea. Unlike her usual habits, she added in three blocks of sugar. She didn’t appreciate the flirtatious smile the waitress – KARLA, according to the cutesy nametag - gave Clint, but who was she to interfere? 

Clint nodded politely to the waitress, and then turned his attention towards Natasha. "And you wouldn't consider it suspicious that you won't look at me?" he said, trying to catch her eyes. When he failed, he drank a mouthful of his coffee, but regretted it instantly as it burned his throat.

Natasha swallowed the emotion and tried to look at him as transparently as possible. Then she looked up, truly seeing the shadows around his eyes. He wasn't sleeping, all right, and whatever images Loki had put in his mind still haunted him. Her gaze was twitchy, and she directed her eyes downwards into the tea. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. 

Clint sighed. He could see the signs that insomnia brought upon its victims on her face, and he knew what it felt like. "Natasha," he said in a barely audible voice.  
Before continuing, he put his hands around his coffee mug. Then they weren't in the way. "You can trust me, you know. Of course you know. Right?" 

"Right," Natasha confirmed. She had allowed her mind to drift about Sanchez. No matter how much trust she had in Clint, she shouldn't - and wouldn't - share her personal qualms about being re-assigned to Sanchez. It would last a day, no more. No intel needed to be gathered, just a refreshment of the cover story. It was her first non-physically demanding in months. It unnerved her.  
She forced himself to look her partner in the eye. "And you know that it goes both ways, right? After everything, you're still my partner." She shouldn't have implied anything with the statement, but it needed to be said. To assure him, she put her hand on his and squeezed gently. "Hey." 

Clint looked at her for a moment. "I know. I just don't want you to get hurt because of me." 'Again'. Right after he'd uttered the words, he noticed how silly they were. She wouldn't get hurt. She knew what she was doing. While silently trying to convince himself that it was true, he mustered a curt smile, which did nothing but add to the ridiculousness of the last thing he'd said. Frankly, he doubted that he had any control left over himself. Such things had a tendency to vaporize when he didn't sleep enough.  
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a bit of movement from the other person in the café. He had raised his hand to his ear as if communicating through an earpiece. The twitch of Clint's eyes was subtle, but he was almost positive that Natasha had caught it. He didn't say anything, though, as it might just be his paranoia running wild.

Out of the corner of her eye, Natasha saw what had caused the micro-tension in Clint. She moved close, leaning over the table, catching his gaze, making sure the majority of the coat's hood covered her vivid hair. Sanchez didn’t associate with people who'd go to a cutesy café like this. Unfortunately, she had other enemies globally - with Clint, without Clint and before Clint - who would.  
The waitress returned with their orders, which they allowed to cool off, busying themselves with risk assessment. Without looking, she spent the next ten seconds profiling him by his movements while Clint watched her. She mimicked smiles as if having a conversation. She whispered against his ear. "Sanchez knows me as a blonde with a Russian accent. It's not his guys." 

A little of the tension seeped out of him when she proved his suspicions wrong. As his brain could now focus on something else than keeping an eye on the stranger, although he didn't forget him completely, he grabbed the first thing that crossed his mind. "I prefer your red hair," he said, attempting a smile.  
As he did so, he noticed that the sun had risen enough for the grey, washed-out light to shine through the window next to them and leave part of the table visibly lighter than the other. 

Natasha smiled genuinely at the comment. She went through hair colors less frequent than aliases but had managed the red for quite long. She remembered dyeing it just before the assignment to tail Pepper Potts when Stark was dying. "Really?" she said, teasing him. "You don't even know my real hair color."

His smile grew more genuine. "Really," he said. He felt his mood brighten.  
It was easier to be happy when she was happy as well, and even though it rarely lasted for a longer period of time, he treasured the moments when she was. It was in moments like this that he didn't care about nightmares or Chitauris or missions, because all that existed in those instants was right there and then, and it was enough. It was more than enough. But it had been easier before New York. He knew, however, that they needed to get this mission done, and soon, if he had his way, but he didn't want to shatter something this rare and precious just yet. 

Natasha gave him a teasingly ambiguous look that could be confirmation and dismissal. She took a large sip of the sweetened tea, aware that she hated the substance ten years ago--hell, even one year ago. Strangely, the sugar calmed her. And she needed calm to go through a round with Sanchez. Last time he'd nearly broken her collarbone. Coulson had sent her a pitiful look, but… damn, she mentally scolded herself for thinking about Coulson. It still hurt, and he hadn’t even been her handler.  
A dark look crossed her face but she suppressed it quickly. "Do you ever get tired of the nicknames, Legolas?" she teased, referring to Stark's annoying habit that had Clint as its victim each time they passed through Avengers Towers. 

"Since they change so often, I don't have time to get tired of one before I get a new one," he said, drinking half of his coffee in one gulp. He almost spat out the now half-cold beverage, but forced himself to swallow it. Cold coffee was worse than too hot coffee. "I wonder why you're never the victim of such things," he added with mock seriousness. 

Natasha chuckled. "I'd like to see him try. I have him right where I want him, thanks to Pepper's friendship," she said with a lopsided grin.  
"He still doesn't like me, though." She paused. "Plus, I'm not nearly as handsome with a bow." 

Clint fidgeted a bit with his hands before folding them in front of him in an attempt to keep them still. He smiled at her in what he hoped was a concealment of the slight embarrassment that had coursed through him briefly. It wasn't until then that he noticed that the amount of people in the café was increasing gradually, and that the rain had ceased, allowing the morning sun to cast a golden glow through the windows. 

Noticing the weather improving, she consulted with her wristwatch. She was to meet Sanchez in short of three hours and needed to re-invent herself, or rather, her cover story, Ekaterina, which included a hair bleach. As much as she wanted to remain safe in this cozy café and spend some time off with her partner, she was forced to put SHIELD's agenda before her own. She hoped he'd be dismissed when Sanchez proved unsuspicious. She'd hate to see his reactions to that many bruises (which _would_ come). She signaled for their waitress and said to Clint. "Let's go, huh?" 

Although Clint didn't want their time at the café, where he could pretend that things were alright, to end, he knew that they had something that needed to be done, and he therefore agreed, his protests kept on the inside.  
Once they were back in the apartment, which seemed to be deprived of the warm sunlight for all eternity, he heaved out the duffel bag from under the bed and emptied its contents on the floor.  
"It's in a couple of hours. You should get some sleep beforehand, Nat," he said, doing his best to keep the concern in his voice and expression at a minimum. 

"I did that already," she said, not willing to let him know how little sleep she'd received and actually needed. She had functioned on two, sometimes three, hours of sleep a day, not telling the medics every time she got injured that the sedatives were the rare, true rest she got.  
She fetched the hair bleach dye from her bag, taking off the cotton top on the way to the bathroom, sashaying down through the kitchen before walking through the door.  
"I'm taking a shower!" she called out, tugging her pants down to leave it in a pile outside the bathroom. She closed the door behind her. She turned on the showerhead and read the instructions for the particular hair product, somehow saddened to let the red go after Clint's statement.

Clint snapped back to reality from the momentary distraction it had caused when she took off her top.  
"Okay," he finally responded, turning his attention back to the gear on the floor. He went through it systematically, making sure that everything was fine. It didn't take too long, and after going through it one and a half times, he settled down on the bed and stared at it blankly.  
For some reason, this didn't feel right. He didn't usually feel like this on missions. But this time, he felt like something wasn't like it used to be. For some reason, a nasty little thought that it wouldn't go as planned bugged him. He blamed it on the fact that SHIELD hadn't debriefed him thoroughly prior to the mission. 

Natasha watched herself be altered to fit some role SHIELD had provided her with and turned her head away in private disgust. She didn't think too much about missions like these. Fortunately, Clint wasn't assigned those kinds of missions frequently (if at all). She owed SHIELD too much to decline. She had the training, the persona to be whomever they needed. She wouldn’t have been able to deal with the looks of understanding and subsequent pity or disgust he'd give her.  
Her hands clutched the sink as she regained her strength, putting her walls into place. She relied on Clint. She trusted Clint. A quick hair job and an abusive asshole shouldn't make her doubt herself like that. She putted on the lacy underwear Sanchez would expect his lover to wear and grabbed a towel before declaring the bathroom available, her blonde hair fanning out behind her, far less subtle than her reddish strands. 

Clint took notice of her blonde hair, but didn't linger. It didn't look like her at all. Although he knew very well that she was still Natasha, the ways she altered her appearance on missions made her someone else. He knew that he only felt like that because it was missions--if she decided to dye her hair blonde because she actually wanted to, he wouldn't mind. But she did it to fit the desires of someone else, and no matter if that someone was SHIELD or their target, he didn't like it.  
He hurried to the bathroom and showered briefly, taking a moment to stare at himself in the mirror. He really didn't look that well. The shadows around his eyes had grown darker, and he had gained an unhealthy greyish color. Maybe it was the light, or maybe it was the upcoming occurrences. He couldn't tell. All he could tell was, that it wasn't like it ought to be. Nonetheless, he put on his pants and went out of the bathroom to get his vest, which he had left on the bed. 

Natasha putted her bag on the bed to find the outfit but did pause to subtly notice Clint as he walked out of the bathroom, sporting a shirtless appearance that she had no trouble openly appreciating albeit biting her lip. She found the dress she was looking for, a marine blue and white dress with an Elizabethan collar neckline. She snapped on heeled shoes and applied makeup in front of the mirror, aware of Clint behind her.  
"Remember that wedding we went to in Mumbai?" she recalled with a smile while she pierced her ears with golden hoops. 

Clint put on his vest and strapped his arm protector and quiver in place. The routine was so well known to him that he did it subconsciously. He caught himself looking at Natasha as she did her makeup, and it took him a short moment to recall the event she was referring to.  
"I remember a torn dress and running for our lives. Again," he said, a smile crossing his lips briefly. 

"And that junior agent's face when Fury came to him, thunderously demanding a cause to why there was a €30,000 dress on ‘expenses'... " 

"It was priceless," he said, allowing his smile to grow genuine. 

"You think?" she said, purposefully blushing. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Barton," she teased. 

Clint met her eyes in the mirror with a teasing grin. "Everywhere, you say?" 

Natasha saw him in the mirror image. Then she turned, standing far too close for professionalism yet not minding a bit. "Within reason," she added with a husky breath.  
Yet in her flirtatiousness, she spotted his fatigue. She chose not to react, knowing he'd just shy away. 'Perhaps that would be best,' she thought sadly, hating Fury for tasking Barton as backup for her Sanchez mission. They were protective of each other, even more so after New York. 

His grin faltered as the seconds ticked by, and by the time his expression bordered on sad, he turned away and picked up his bow. He wanted to protect her and keep her safe, no matter the cost. But be that as it may, he also had to let her complete the mission, even if he didn't want to. He had seen her dress up for such occasions before, and he always felt a pang of jealousy, yet he never dared push their flirting and their banter too far.  
'It's better that way. We're goddamn partners,' he thought. He didn't want to hide how he felt, but he knew that he had to. He knew that they would not be allowed to go on missions together if it went too far, and besides, he was afraid of losing her. Very afraid. Although he would never admit it, she was what kept him grounded after New York. He wasn't sure if he would have made it if it hadn't been because he had her. But all of this remained unsaid, yet he thought that she knew it, at least to some extent. He had never been as good as her at burying his feelings entirely.  
"Ready to go kick some ass?" He said, doing his best to keep his voice neutral. 

Her face, too, faltered. "About that..." she began, voice hesitant. She needed to tell him so he could tell apart act from true distress. She exhaled. "Sanchez is... expressive in his passion."  
She didn't want to say it out loud because it would pain him. _He gets off on having me suffer. Not me but the me he thinks I am. He beat girls--women, whatever._ And she needed to be someone who wouldn't fight back. Ekaterina wasn't Natasha. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" he said with a puzzled look. His concern was steadily growing again. 

Natasha recognized the look on his face. _Shit_. "I've worked on this cover for two years. Sanchez trusts me. That trust is based on a physical relationship during which he gets _very_ physical. I'm only saying this because you'll be listening," she said, feeling her anger grow. She was doing her job, why was he getting upset? And why was him being upset upsetting her? 

Clint gaped at her like a confused fish for a moment before regaining his composure. "You... Backup. They said backup. That means keeping you safe! That means you not getting hurt!" he said, his voice growing louder.  
He couldn't allow this, and yet he knew that she had to go through it. He cared about her, and he wasn't sure if he could stay put while she was getting beaten by some sadistic asshole. He was struggling to control his anger--with SHIELD, with Sanchez above all, and with her.

Natasha knew she’d broken their rule. She never discussed intimate details of targets. It lessened their partnership and turned the targets into persons they didn't deserve to be.  
"He thinks I'm a woman, Barton, and that's what women are to him. You're here if he realizes I'm in any way affiliated with SHIELD or anybody else and not here because I'm fucking too afraid not to be. Why'd you think I needed a month off last autumn? SHIELD knows. The intel is worth it. And trust me, as much as I loathe the fact that Fury appointed you as my backup, backup means getting me out of there, not if he turns violent, or cruel, or does anything against my will -- but if he suspects."

"You're gonna waltz in there, unarmed and with the intention of letting him do to you as he pleases? Hell no, Tasha. Hell no. This is not about being brave or about being afraid. This is about you fucking volunteering to let somebody _beat you up_ for SHIELD's sake!"  
He took a deep breath before continuing as he felt his anger leaping out of control. "I can't, Natasha. I can't sit by. I could if you were at least gonna resist, but you're not, are you? I can't do it."  
He stopped himself before he said something he would deeply regret. He was quite aware that she had to do it, but if there was anything, _anything_ he could do to stop it, he would. If there wasn't, however, he would have to muster a great deal of self-control within a very short period of time. He still tried to deny that possibility, though.  
One thing was for sure--he wouldn't let her down. He cared too much about her. Maybe there was a reason why partners should only care about each other on a professional level. He had sat by while she was in trouble for the sake of intel before, but never in a case where he wasn't allowed to do anything if she couldn't handle it.

"Then I guess I have to dial SHIELD and have a jet pick you up within the next hour, because I _am_ going! This isn’t a long-time op, it's confirmation, a meet-and-greet. SHIELD knows about this. I told Phil everything last autumn. _Everything_. And you know what? He _approved_ this mission. Yeah, I saw the file and his signature before we left. I dress up, I play the damsel Sanchez beats so countless lives can be saved by my intel. His organization is the lesser of multiple evils. He trusts me enough to tell me everything. So what if I break a couple of bones. I'm doing this because SHIELD says so. And even if they gave me a choice, you know what, Clint? I'd do it. Because that's how many peoples lives this op has saved." 

"You told _Phil_ everything, but you didn't trust _me_ enough to tell me what this is fucking about. I get it. I get it. You sacrifice yourself for the greater good. But what if I'd rather have you in one piece than that? What if I don't give a fuck if people die if it saves you? I don't know if you've noticed, but I don't want to lose you," he yelled, his emotions getting the best of him and his brain-to-mouth filter switching off.  
His vision got blurry, and he turned his face away for a moment to collect himself. No way was he crying like a little baby, no matter how angry he was. "I can't," he added without looking at her. Deep inside, he knew that she would get through it. He knew that she was capable of it. And he knew that she _would_ go through it. He didn't look back up at her, but fixed his eyes on the wall behind her. He wished he hadn't said the things he just did--not because they weren't true, but because it was dangerous to feel like that.

His confession rendered her speechless. She allowed the words to sink it as she fell into support from the wall. When she spoke, her voice was tiny. "I told Phil because I thought it'd make a difference. Sanchez scares me, Clint. He _scares_ **me**. Not just because he is… like he is, but because I could see myself ending up with someone like him before SHIELD came. Before you came. And I wouldn't have cared." 

Clint’s voice was shaky when he replied, but the anger had evaporated. Now, all there was left was concern, regret and hurt. "Phil wouldn't have cared if you get hurt. All he ever cared about was SHIELD and SHIELD's interests. You don't have to do this."  
He tried to steady himself before continuing, but couldn't do so satisfactorily. "You have to care," he said, channeling all his willpower into not letting his voice break. 

Natasha didn't break the fragile eye contact. "I care, Clint. But I have to not. It's my training." She couldn't say it, didn't want to. _'I wouldn't have cared before I met you. You made me switch my humanity back on. I hurt because I met you.'_  
"I made a promise to SHIELD when you chose not to fire and fulfill that termination order years ago. Total devotion. I wish you didn't have to be here, Clint. I really do." She paused and in spite of her own rulebook, she stepped close to him and leaned against his shoulder. She had a rule about separating her aliases from herself, but doubted that would actually work at this point.  
"Phil cared. He did. But he made the same conclusion I did, and it hurt him. The intel was worth the compromises." 

Clint carefully put his arms around her and held her against his chest. Rules be damned. "I don't wish I didn't have to be here. You're here, and that means I am as well," he said, his voice muffled by her hair.  
"If you have to do this, there's no place I'd rather be. I would hate to be told when you got back that you were... that... what he did. Or be lied to again." He couldn't talk her out of it, that much he had come to terms with. But he damn sure wouldn't leave her. 

"You shouldn't have to. This is a solo assignment. Fury's... protective, that's all," she lied, keeping the fact that glimpses of her during the New York battle footage might have made its way into Sanchez' organization. "But, I don't want you to listen."  
Looking at him, emotionally honest, it was enough for Clint to let his guard down. With a powerful smack that would echo through her conscience, he went out cold, and Natasha made sure to leave abruptly for Sanchez', leaving only Clint and his equipment (and her cover's belongings, which would be cleared by the cleanup grew after departure).  
Then she went to see Sanchez. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confrontations occur and what has been stirring beneath the surface is revealed. Natasha punches Fury and alienates herself further from Clint.

Clint regained his sight slowly. Blurred shapes became furniture, and a grey square turned out to be a window. With a grunt, he rolled onto his side, but regretted it deeply when a jet of pain shot through his head. What the _hell_ had happened? When the pain ceased enough for the pretty sparkly thingies to vanish from his vision, he made an attempt at sitting. As he looked around, he remembered bits, and suddenly, it all came back to him. He didn't remember anything beyond telling her that he wouldn't leave her, though. He rose in a swift movement, and was impressed by how insignificant the headache it caused was.  
He gathered his weapons and was just about to head recklessly out the door when it occurred to him--he had no idea where in London Sanchez, and thereby Natasha, was. The only place with connection to her and her mission, which he knew how to find, was the hangar.  
When he arrived at the hangar, he sat on the ground by the plane and waited.

After her mission – which went smoothly and without issues, as she had hoped for when she’d ditched her backup (she thought with a wince) – she shivered even more, shaking and wondering how much of the terror had been a performance. She swallowed, put up a brave face, and headed for the hangar where a cargo plane would be awaiting.  
Natasha had long since discarded the dress, opting for a more skin-covering and camouflaging look. She wasn't limping and felt greater than she had ever when leaving Sanchez. The trek to the hangar did, however, not improve her condition, but she sucked it in, figuring SHIELD's medics stateside would give her some reviewing and lessen the pain somewhat. Sanchez was dangerous because he was smart and violent.  
He hadn’t left any marks on her she couldn’t cover with clothes – aside from the rather distinctive bruise on her cheekbone with his knuckle ring, which she had covered by allowing her long hair to create a veil that obscured the half of her face in question. Most of the punches had hit her midsection and although it hurt to breathe, she managed to walk quite gracefully.

As she approached, Clint crossed his arms and rose, waiting as patiently as ever. He was trying very hard to keep a disappointed and angry expression, but he suspected it leaned more towards hurt and betrayed.

Natasha spotted him now and felt herself be conflicted. Relief because he hadn’t suffered a head injury from her whack, but so much else due to the fact that it would take him a while to trust her again - and forgiveness was out the window. As she approached him, a man clad in SHIELD uniform came to her, running with a cell phone. She declined, knowing that whatever Fury had to say would have to wait. Instead, she crawled into the cargo hold of the plane and waited for Clint to follow and the subsequent scolding. She made sure her bangs covered the place where the skin of her cheek was broken.

Once she was inside, he followed suit. For a moment he looked at the floor, but then he said, "You're alive, I see." He avoided meeting her eyes and went for as unapproachable a stance as possible. He had no idea what to do or how to react, so he let his emotions do the job for him. "We talked about trust. You remember that, don't you? Or did he give you a nice little concussion?"  
He paused before continuing, surprised by how calm his voice was. "I've had some time to think about it. You know, I walked here, and then I sat here. For a while." He shrugged. "Quite a while, in fact. You hadn't bothered telling me _where_ this Sanchez was. But you didn't care, did you? You just did your job."  
He shifted his eyes from the floor to the ceiling. "And before you went to do your job, you decided to go solo, so you knocked out your... _backup_ , or whatever it was. Or did you have someone else do it? 'Cause I don't fucking remember. You didn't trust him to stay put, because he cares about you. You thought he would interfere. You didn't trust that he knew you would be able to it when you said you were able to do it." He caught her eyes and lifted an eyebrow. "You lied to me. You told me that you trusted me. Am I not right?" 

Natasha kept her gaze at one specific spot on the floor. Not as much out of shame or avoidance but sheer nausea. "I trust you. But you're also the most protective partner I've had. And even I can't muffle the screams without the mic. So, did you stop to wonder that perhaps I did it for me? For it to be a little easier? You're beyond pissed and you don't trust me. But I trust you. And I don't trust myself around Sanchez. It's better if you didn't bear witness. "  
She paused. "Oh, and the cover's intact," she added bitterly. "No need f---" A powerful wave of pain silenced her. Her voice broke. "--or backup." 

Clint unfolded his arms and deep concern marred his features at her display of pain, but he reverted back to semi-angry when he judged that she wouldn't fall or something similarly outrageous. "I'm protective because I _care_! Why don't you see it?"  
He took a deep breath. "Maybe you did it for your own sake, but don't you dare think you did me a favor."

It was with a dead voice and cold stance that she said the next words as his sunk in. "I did it for me. Did you know what Fury promised me when I took this assignment after my initial assessment? I get to kill him when I'm done. I get to _kill_ him," she said ravenously, remorseless. 

"I hope you're happy with yourself," he said, turned around and walked to the nearest box and sat down, fiddling with his bow in order to have something to do with his hands. He was boiling, and if it wasn't because he feared she couldn't take it, he would be yelling at her. 

Hurt by his comment, yet knowing of its honesty, she didn't bait him. She had her reasons for staying still, and openly hostility wouldn't do them any good. It was a long flight until she could see a medic and she could feel bruises developing around her midsection. She kept silent, tinkering with the bracelet Sanchez had given her. She had it checked for bugs and it hadn't flagged. Jewelry meant little to her, but her cover liked them. Her cover liked anything that made her noticeable. It could have been Natasha once; once, she had wanted to become a ballerina, but (then again) what girl grows up dreaming to be a killer? She wasn't conflicted or in doubt of what she was. She was whatever SHIELD utilized her for, not what they had created. They just used the tools already in her arsenal. The brief clash and joining of the Avengers hadn't changed that. If summoned, she'd show up, even if her skills were less impressive than her teammates. 

"Are you hurt a lot?" he said after sitting in silence for a while, still looking at his bow. No matter how disappointed or betrayed he felt, he didn't want her to suffer. They could fight when she was fit for it. 

Natasha shook her head indecisively. "I've had worse." It was true, but she was too frustrated with the situation and the web of incoherent details that had been revealed to her to be emotionally expressive. The debriefing with Fury was something she was roping in her rage for.

"I'm usually there when you have worse," he said, looking up briefly. 

Truth was, she had trouble seeing straight with the bangs obscuring her vision, but she knew that exposure of injuries never solved anything between them. She hadn't moved her gaze, afraid he'd see - and afraid she wouldn't be able to stomach what she'd eaten this morning.  
She absentmindedly fumbled with the diamond bracelet as another wave of pain coursed through her as they experienced turbulence and the seat belt pressed against the forming bruises. She didn't hear what Clint said, but registered as he moved his lips, her vision dizzying further, distorting into shapes and shadows. 

Clint saw her falling forward before he had time to react, his expression becoming one of shock. "Natasha!" he exclaimed as he rose, bow clattering against the floor as he let go of it. It took him only a couple of steps to reach her, and he unbuckled the seat belt with clumsy movements. She slid down the seat, and he put her gently down on the floor, kneeling by her side. Her hair had fallen back, and her sweatshirt had been pushed up, revealing her deeply bruised body. He didn't mean to stare, but the colors worried him. A person's skin wasn't meant to be purple-black. "What did he do to you?" he whispered, carefully letting his fingers run over her bruised cheek. 

Natasha groaned when Clint put her down, but grimaced as her sweatshirt slid up. Dammit, she hadn't thought the bruises had surfaced yet. Sanchez had been a lot gentler with her this time - undoubtedly due to his illness and weakening body, not for the lack of trying. But that was something to question Fury about.  
"It's... nothing," she stubbornly stuttered, trying to push the hem of the shirt to cover the bruised skin of her toned body. In the attempt, her bangs fell away from the developing bruise on her cheekbone, bearing the mark of the ring that signified Sanchez' organization, its crest marring her skin. 

"Nothing? How can this be nothing? Fury's a dead man when we get back," he muttered. He knew that they had a rather long flight ahead of them, so he would do his best to keep her conscious. "What's that mark?" he asked when nothing better came to mind, touching the oddly shaped bruise on her cheekbone.

She looked at him, a shy coldness in her eyes. "Sanchez." She eyed the diamond bracelet on her wrist before her fingers went to touch the bruise on her cheek.

"Steve showed me something like that once. I don't remember the name of the organization. Something with H, I think."  
When her fingers touched the bruise, he took her hand in his. "Did he give you that as well?" he said, eyeing the bracelet. His grip on her hand wasn't restrictive--he could still see the bracelet if she lowered her hand--but merely an excuse to touch her. 

Natasha stared blankly at the jewelry. She was used to jewelry. It was part of being courted and subsequently owned by targets and lovers. She knew its fate. "It'll go in the vault. For later use or sale to fund operations. Sanchez has his way with the local jewelers."  
Even though the skin was sore, she didn't break away from his touch. She closed her eyes, experiencing the want of his touch and equal disgust for herself resurfacing. A single tear of exhaustion slipped from the corner of her eyes, wetting the angry red mark before hitting his hand. 

Clint wanted to comfort her and make it all okay, but he didn't know what to say. He was afraid to say something wrong or too pitiful, so he just let the seconds tick by, too aware of the wet streak on his hand and what it meant, if it meant anything. Maybe it was just his slightly concussed brain inflicting its opinions on him. 

After a raw and sharp intake of breath, she resumed normal breathing (as normal as one could with possibly bruised ribs). "Sorry about the head," she said, echoing the words of her recruitment, which had ended in her being handcuffed in a SHIELD helicopter, a staring match between Coulson and Barton, and a surprisingly sincere admission of remorse.  
Her voice was weak, but she thought she managed to chuckle. Everything hurt, so it might have been forced, but she was more comfortable - albeit dangerously placed - lying down, comfortable having her partner hover despite usually berating him for treating her like something breakable. As evidenced by this mission, it wasn't because he thought less of her - although it would have made it easier if he had - but because he knew her to be able to handle it, but had doubted (yeah, she had seen it) his own response. 

Clint shrugged and mustered a smile, only half-forced. It was hard to be positive in a situation like this, but it was also hard not to be relieved. He shrugged. "At least you're not the only one who's hurt, then." 

"Pretty sure I might've fixed something up there," she teased slurred. 

"You've done so before," he said, his grin faltering slightly at the memories it evoked. 

They landed five hours later, mostly intact. Natasha refused a gurney, though, having recuperated sufficiently during the plane ride. When they exited the plane, a well-known figure stood waiting for them at a car with a license plate saying STARK 23. Clint stayed close to Natasha, ready to catch her, should her legs give out again, but trying to be subtle about it all the same. When she had inched herself into the car, he followed suit. The ride to Avengers Tower was short and uneventful, but Clint felt his anger resurface when he saw Fury waiting for them outside.

Upon recognizing the leather coat and the telltale eye-patch, Natasha visibly stiffened. She understood Fury better than she'd like, but after what she had learnt about Sanchez, she couldn't ignore the anger directed towards him. She thanked Happy for the ride, smiling at how reluctant the man was after her undercover mission as Natalie.  
She walked steadily, appreciating Clint's hover once again as she approached the Director of SHIELD, aware that she was being recorded by Stark's surveillance equipment. She pushed Clint away before striding to Fury, tightening her fist and planting it firmly into the empty eye-socket so the taller man stumbled back but regained momentum.  
"You son of a bitch!" she screamed, flashing the wounds on her face. She restrained herself from attacking him further, feeling anger evaporate somewhat. "You knew! The mission was unnecessary! _He's_ dying. In two months, he'll be _dead_ from **natural causes**."

Fury spoke in a solemn voice, ignoring her display of insubordination. "Welcome back, Agent Romanov. Agent Barton."

When the director didn't proceed, Clint took the chance to say something. "You put her in danger for nothing! You fucking idiot!" he yelled, letting his suppressed anger surface. 

Instead of listening, Fury turned and headed inside the building. "The debriefing is this way," he said, and instead of following him, Clint said, "She needs to go to the med bay, you..."  
He stopped before he said something that would get him in too much trouble, and resorted to crossing his arms and putting on a stubborn expression. 

"It's okay, Barton," she said, resorting to his surname and formality to avoid an agency incident. "I'm certain Director Fury deems what little _intel_ I have important," she spat, eyeing the cams which were - if she knew Stark a little bit - following their exchange eagerly. 

Clint waited till the director was out of earshot. "Well, I wouldn't know, would I?" 

Natasha gave him a sad and regretful smile. "You wouldn't approve of the method it was acquired by."  
She followed suit as they went to a debriefing room. She sat down in front of Fury. "As is to be expected by someone in his condition, he's vetting a replacement. Sanchez' organization is in charge of fronting a neo Hydra, which it's our agenda to cripple in its infanthood. Sanchez regularly meets with its leader. He is going out of country into Munich for a week, supervising a negotiation. I am almost certain he has refused their offer to experiment with life-prolonging serums."

"Hydra. Right, that's the name." Fury shot Clint a look when he interrupted, but he merely lifted his eyebrows and looked at him with an I-sincerely-don’t-care-you-son-of-a-bitch expression. 

"I get the feeling that you were not needed, Agent Barton," Fury said in his usual, threatening tone. 

"Not at all," Clint said, suppressing a smile. 

Natasha ignored Fury's comment. "Given SHIELD's - especially the two of ours - experience on the matter of super serum, I'm pretty sure that his body had not ingested super serum or would even be salvageable in that case. I have seen firsthand what it requires of a healthy patient. His cancer is too advanced for that. In any event, it'd cause mutation, and we know what Sanchez' opinions are of those." 

"Dismissed," Fury said as he exited the room, his coat fanning out behind him. 

"Can we go to the med bay now?" Clint inquired exhaustedly.

"Sure," she said absentmindedly, wondering why Fury had dismissed them. Clint didn't know about the super serum - when was there a moment for _that_ tale? - although she suspected he suspected, and it'd confuse things again. In any event, he'd assume she abused her body's amplified regenerative abilities to be careless and reckless in her field assessments.  
She followed him to the infirmary, knowing that Stark, if not restrained by others or his casual pints of actual plight, would be there to comment on her not-following-the-rulebook punch to Fury's face and its possible repercussions.  
When the medic requested her to take off her sweatshirt and turned to Clint to ask for privacy, she cut her off. "He can stay." 

When she took off her sweatshirt, Clint winced at her bruises. As he looked at them, however, they looked more blue than purple-black. He snapped out of his distraction when he realized that he was staring at her midsection, most likely with an empty expression. He reverted his gaze the moment he became aware that he wasn't looking at her bruises anymore, but at her body.  
The medic finished tending to her and left, upon which the room seemed wrapped in an awkward silence. After a few seconds, Clint cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his chest. "I should... leave and… you should get some rest." 

Natasha shrugged on the clean sweater she kept at med bay, jumping off the cot, hesitant. "I _should_ apologize. And you _should_ have told the medic you received a whack to the head. It needs to go on record," she said softly, reaching with her fingers at a point near his temple and hairline.

"Screw the record," he shrugged. They were so close right now--far closer than professionalism should ever allow. He had to conjure a great deal of control in order not to close the distance between them.

"Is it really the record you want to screw?" she whispered sultrily, her hands grazing the hairline. They had been through a lot during the last couple of days, hell, last couple of months. She noticed his eyes linger at the Hydra mark, but did nothing to conceal the emotion on her face. Slowly, she tiptoed to have her face inches from his. "Is it really?" she repeated, eyes upward, at his will. 

Clint leaned down, lips meeting hers in a soft kiss, and placed his hand on either of her hips. He couldn't find his voice, and let his actions speak for him instead. 

Natasha wasn't surprised to find him chaste, but experienced an uncertainty she hadn't felt for years flush through her. She had been kissed before, but that had been mostly missions, never Clint. And yet, she mused, she liked the way his hands naturally seemed to find her hips. Soon, she was on her toes to keep up with his lips, bumping into hospital equipment and, despite trying not to, wincing at the reminder of her bruises, although they were healing quickly. 

He hadn't felt like this in a long time, if ever--he had never wanted it the same way he wanted this. He lifted a hand to the zipper on her sweater and zipped it down, while placing his other hand on her lower back. 

The sound of a door being smacked open was closely followed by that of a certain billionaire's voice. "Congratulations. I have wanted to punch him myself for a long time. Barton, you should incorporate some more swear words, and...."  
His voice broke when he rounded the curtain between the cot and the door. "I thought I was the only one who didn't care about place and time," he said after half a second's hesitation. He had entered the room so suddenly that neither Clint nor Natasha had had any time to react. 

Natasha stiffened but else didn’t batter an eye at the sudden entrance of the owner of the Tower. Reluctantly, she let go of Clint’s neck, fighting the urge to snarl at Stark like some feline predator. She thanked the gods that they hadn’t stripped off her underwear yet—not for Stark’s sake, but knowing Clint, she didn’t want him to be caught in a situation like this.  
She opened her mouth to speak, knowing that the billionaire wasn’t exactly known for his discretion. “Stark...” she growled, staring at him with threat evident in her eyes. Her blonde hair was piled atop her head in a messy bun, exposing the recently cleaned Hydra crest, which would either heal or scar. She hoped for the former. With the sweatshirt zipped down, her new purple-blue-yellowish skin tone showed against the white cotton. 

"Jeez, what happened to you?" Stark said when he noticed her bruises. Subconsciously, Clint blocked her from view by stepping in front of her. He looked at Tony with a murderous glance.

"Get. Out." Clint snarled. 

Tony lifted his hands in mock surrender. "Common room when you're done," he said, and started towards the door again, chuckling audibly. 

Natasha noticed Clint's protectiveness, and while it should have filled her with a tender sensation, it did none of the sort. She had seen him tense. Stark wasn't predatory in his looks; she was just female, it was an occupational habit for him to notice her. She had received looks that were far more _male_ during missions, and she needed to function - needed Clint to function - during such events.  
The lightheadedness from the kiss and his touch had evaporated, leaving them awkward and her exposed. She wanted to say something funny to ease the mood, but couldn't find words. Instead, her hand absentmindedly went to the Hydra scar. If it didn't heal, she'd carry the telltale mark of her enemy forever. No more undercover missions, no more stealth. An eternal reminder for letting someone have his way with her. 

Their moment was lost--the warmth gone. They had snapped out of their little bubble, and the world had started spinning again. Clint wished it hadn't. Things like these were far too rare to waste like that, and it was all Tony's fault. Sometimes he couldn't stand him.  
"I'll get changed," he simply said, making his way to the door. He hoped he'd meet Stark on his way upstairs so he could accidentally hit him. Hard.  
He paused as he pushed down the door handle and turned to face Natasha. "Wanna come?" he said with an insecure grin. 

She re-zipped the sweater and grabbed the light pants, jumping into them. "Yeah." Now where she had paid attention to it, her cheekbone stung. Otherwise, her bruises seemed to heal according to the altered body of hers. She caught sight of herself in the mirror, blonde hair, swollen cheek, bruised neck. There was nothing to admire there.  
She followed her partner. She fisted her right hand, sore from hitting Fury. It'd definitely bruise. She cringed as the muscles moved. 

Clint had always thought of elevators as being awkward places. Nevertheless, during the short ride to a couple floors above, he didn't have time to think about being awkward--all he could think about was, that Natasha's bruises seemed a lot less severe than they had on the plane. Of course, he was glad that she was healing, but it occurred to him as though being a little odd that they appeared to be vanishing that quickly.  
When they reached the right floor, they headed down the hallway to Clint's bedroom. He opened the closet and heaved out the first, the best t-shirt and sweats, stripping off his uniform in order to trade it for the more relaxed outfit. He didn't think Natasha would mind--after all, they had been crammed in tiny places before, being forced to ignore shyness. But somehow, it was different this time. 

She watched him with a look that bored cats tended to give their owners when assessing their state of playfulness. While she still possessed a hunger to whatever had gone through her during the kiss, she also knew better than to throw herself at her partner. Right now, her mind was too preoccupied with the mark on her cheek that didn't seem to heal (if at all) as rapidly as the bruises. While the healing factor came in handy, it wasn't painless. 

Once he had changed, he decided to give it a shot and try to get some answers. He knew that she wasn't likely to tell him anything, but he wanted to at least try. "You know, I've been wondering about something. You seem better than when we were on that darn plane. Which is good, of course. In fact, you seem a lot better."  
He paused, trying to find the right words. "It's kinda the same thing Steve does whenever he gets injured," he finally said, and looked at her with a confused expression. He wasn't sure what to make of his observations, and he didn't want to connect the dots, mostly because it would leave him wondering why Natasha had kept it a secret. 

"People heal at different paces. It's due to hormonal variations. I have healed fast since I was young. Amazing when considering half my family was hemophiliacs," she said, trying to throw him off scent. She realized she'd failed when his gaze didn't stop intensifying.  
"Red Room did a lot of things to prepare young girls for Black Widows, Clint," she added, looking away, her hands traveling the surfaces on his dresser and tables. 

"Such as what?" he said, abandoning subtleness altogether. She rarely spoke about Red Room, which was understandable from the things he had heard about it, but now that she'd mentioned it, he seized the chance and hoped to hear some more. He wasn't quite sure why exactly he wanted to know these things--they were not in a committed relationship, and thus he couldn't expect her to be completely honest with him--but he did. 

"Recruitment. Abandonment. Psychological weaning. Isolation. Gun training. That's before the age of six. Blindfolded weapons handling and aim. With live targets," she listed. "At age 12, the injections begin. Older if you're premature. Numbers reduce. Most girls don't make it to 13. That's when exams begin," she told him darkly, recalling it as if it hadn't happened to her.  
She remembered when she was strapped down and injected with the Russian version of the super soldier serum. Safe testing didn't occur. 12 girls dead. "Gladiator-like selection. Starvation. Dehydration. Tests of endurance." Her voice was cold and she wasn't sure why she was telling him all of this. 

Clint had never expected her to tell him this much. Taken slightly aback, he just gaped at her for a few seconds. Then he remembered how to use his voice. "Makes my training seem like a trip in the woods," he said, trying to ease the now-cooled mood a bit. It was hard for him to comprehend the things she had gone through, and that just made it all the much harder to figure out an adequate response. 

Natasha stared at nowhere, recalling how she had been presented to a foreign gun and told to fire, instructed to hit an apple above a younger girl's head. She had failed. Twice. Two girls had lost their lives to train her, many since.  
"Hydra and USSR began working together on a super serum after the emergence of a successful patient: Steve Rogers. They worked ravenously, caring little about their patients. Many died before they found out that their serum had to be injected during puberty, mostly effective in girls, in doses that bordered on overdoses. It was highly… unstable. 12 girls in my unit died within the first three months." She rubbed her wrists. "Rapid regeneration is one of the side-effects. As far as I know, the injections of this particular version of the super serum stopped in ‘49." 

It took Clint a moment to process what she had just told him. He shook his head slightly, convinced that he had heard wrong, but wanted confirmation nonetheless. "Forty... nine?" 

She nodded slowly, occupying herself with fumbling with items in his quarters. She kept most of her stuff at her SHIELD quarters, not wanting a reason for Stark to snoop around her room. "November 10th, 1949." 

He was rendered speechless, unable to do anything else than spread out his arms in a 'what!?' gesture. "So you're... you're..." He gave up on the sentence and went for something else. "Did you freeze down as well?" he said, a bit more hostile than he meant to. 

Natasha chuckled at his farfetched suggestion. "I was Natalia Romanova for a long time." She added an accent to the name. "Red Room trained me, but the Widow program sent me into service. Did you know that the right voltage of electrocution is enough for the memory center in your brain to break down, reverting a personality to what it's been trained to do? Loki was right," she laughed bitterly. "That much blood makes the ledger drip," she said absently.  
She continued bitterly. "Of course, electrocution isn't that bad when the patient doesn't remember, is it? All healed, in time. A few triggers, a lot of ammo, The Black Widow strikes again and she doesn't even know it's 'again'." There was no trace of amusement in her voice. 

His expression darkened at the mentioning of Loki's name. "He was never right. Not about you, either." He was silent for a little while.  
"So you don't... remember anything before you... um... became Natasha?" It sounded odd and wrong to him, because in his eyes, she had always been and would always be Natasha. 

"Glimpses. Murders. Fires. Wounds that haven't scarred. Orders. I followed orders, Clint. Remorselessly so. I broke away when it was disbanded in ‘89. From there, the memories are steady," she said. "I have met a young Nick Fury. God, he was arrogant back then. Age suits him," she commented. 

"Let me guess. I'm the only one on the team who didn't experience World War II and doesn't heal super-fast. The rest of you got super serum, or what?" He was exhausted and thus his brain capacity and his temperament were short. He didn't know how much more he could handle that day--even though he was trained not to succumb to things such as tiredness and being fed up, this was not a mission. He was god damn home. Or whatever this place was. What a strange thought. 

"I never said it came without a price or that it was the same as Captain America's super-size-wonder. Years are a terrible gift, Clint, trust me, if you are unaware. This is as classified as SHIELD gets. They're harboring a deadly assassin who reacts questionably to substances. I heal. So does a lot of people. Do you know how it feels to have bone healing within a couple of days instead of months? A terrible privilege." 

"At least you can get back to your precious masochistic missions faster that way," he said in an annoyed tone. He shook his head slowly, then more furiously. The sky had darkened considerably outside, and even though he didn't have a watch, he knew it was very late and that he had been awake for longer than was good. 

"How old are you?" she asked quietly. She knew the information, but wanted him to answer. There was no feistiness in her voice. Just patience. "When were you born?" 

"’71," he said, looking out the floor-to-ceiling window. Damn Stark for having such a profound love for glass. 

"1928." 

He heard what she said, but didn't quite absorb it. It was as though his senses had stopped working together, his eyesight most of all, because he swore there were two Natashas just before. He nodded slowly before saying anything. "I'll go to bed," he said quietly, but held his ground. 

Natasha felt hurt by his reaction but didn't pry. She noticed the slurred look in his eyes and knew he needed sleep. She felt like a stranger. "I'll go so you can rest," she said. 

It was a though the bed repelled Clint with all its might. He knew what would happen the moment he fell asleep, and he feared it. Nevertheless, he sat on the edge of the bed, looking at it suspiciously. Right before Natasha reached the door, he opened his mouth to say something, but didn't. When he tried again, it worked better.  
"You don't have to go," he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. He looked up at her and was glad that the sleepiness would wipe out his facial expression. "Please?" he added, barely audible. 

Natasha tensed, recognizing the tone. The desperation was a dead ringer for her earlier request in the infirmary. _The nightmares_. She closed her eyes, leaning her head against the door, trying to banish the distrust of this day in two tears, which she wiped from her cheeks before she returned to his side. "Sure."  
She sat down next to him, her head leaned against his shoulder. It felt good, right. Just them. She stifled a yawn after five minutes, feeling the exhaustion beginning to tingle. She ranked her back and slowly straddled him with soft movements of exhaustion. Slowly, she put her weight on his chest. "Lie down. Rest," she requested, and upon seeing the confliction and outright fear in his eyes, she continued:  
"You don't have to dream. Just lie with me," she whispered, content when he did, relaxing very little. It ended in her lying atop him. She rose to a position on her knees where she leaned down, softly, and kissed his lids, pressing their hands together, pinning him down.  
At some point, she felt a heat go through her that shouldn't be associated with the tenderness she tried to treat him with. She restrained herself and turned the kisses chaste, softly trailing down his face, hovering above his lips before continuing down on his toned but tense body, trying to loosen his muscles. He kept her fingers locked between his, preventing her from venturing below his midsection. She used her teeth and tongue to move the hem of his t-shirt upwards, rubbing her head comfortingly above his heart, hoping it would calm him down and not issue further tension. 

Clint’s body told him to let her keep going, but his mind knew that it would only make things worse--he just couldn't bring himself to care about that as he felt warmth spread from the places she touched him. He unlocked their fingers and ran his hands across her back, careful not to let them stray too low. 

Even as she was released - a silly word, because she'd never felt truly captured - she didn't push further. When her sweater grew too hot and her bare ankles too cold, she carefully stopped her journey to ask: "Is it alright if I take off my shirt?"

Throat raw and unreliable from tiredness, he merely nodded. He was already half asleep, but every time his eyes closed, he forced himself back to consciousness. Although the fear was smaller than is used to be, he wasn't quite ready to succumb to the monsters awaiting him. 

Natasha removed her sweater, watching his lids blink only to force themselves open once again. Wrapping the covers around them, she whispered, head on his heart: "I'll guard you." 

He wrapped his arm around her, holding her tight. "I know," he whispered hoarsely, allowing his eyelids to fall shut. He drifted off feeling calmer than he had in a long time, for once believing that the nightmares could be beaten. 

Natasha didn't stir, but even though she didn't fall asleep, her muscles relaxed. Loki's words plagued her mind, though, and so did the resurfacing memories of her past.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Insomniacs, Natasha and Steve encounter one another during the night and talk mundanely. Clint and Natasha's momentary bliss is interrupted by an attack on the city with dire consequences that requires a spy to make a choice.

Natasha got up after being absolutely certain that Clint was buried in sleep. She hated having to leave, but the mark stung too intensely for her to keep still. Besides, she had duties. She left the room silently, redressing. She went to her room to fetch a top in lieu of the sweater, then going to the kitchen to feed Nikita, the kitten Stark had presented her with after one of his accidents had caused all power to be shut down in the middle of her annual report, deleting everything she had spent two days writing up.

Steve sat on the couch in the common room with his drawing pad in his lap, sketching the kitten sprawled out on the floor in front of him. He stopped abruptly, however, when the little thing lifted its head, suddenly alert. When it got up and sprinted to the kitchen, he rose silently, putting down the drawing pad on the couch and tiptoeing after the kitten. The first thing he saw when he entered was a blonde person, and upon confirming it wasn't Thor, he said: "Identify yourself."

Natasha wasn't amused. "Stand down, Rogers." Rolling her eyes, she kneeled down to pet the small kitten, which leaned into her touch as if craving the touch to sustain itself. "Nikita, Мой дорогой." Her hair covered most of her face, but she was sure the Captain would recognize her voice. 

He recognized the voice as being Natasha's, and vaguely remembered a rude comment from Tony about blonde women from earlier that day. "Welcome back," he said in lack of better.  
"You usually don't socialize right after missions," he said matter-of-factly. 

"Didn't think anybody was up. Besides, Nikita needed food, didn't you?" she said to the kitten, which purred as she scratched him underneath his chin, sending a purr through the room. She smiled genuinely, but her movements were stiff and sore. 

"Bruce has been feeding her while you were gone. Seems that the furball has grown on him." He couldn't help but smile at the memory of Bruce sitting on the floor, dragging a piece of paper in front of the kitten to catch. 

Natasha stiffened at the mention of Bruce, which was unfair. She had nothing against the kind doctor, but The Other Guy was the focus of most nightmares that wasn't centric on her.  
"Good to know," she said, and as she bent to retrieve the cat food, hair fell from where it had stuck to her wound, inciting a wince. Nikita narrowed his eyes in warning. "That's nice, but 'she' is a he, Rogers. Nikita is a Russian boy's name."

"A he? Fancy that." His smile faltered as the mark on her cheek was revealed. At first, it was a reaction to the fact that she was hurt, but it took him only a brief moment to recognize it. "Where did you get that?" he inquired. 

She was confused until it dawned on her he was referring to Sanchez' parting gift. "The mission went a little rough. Nothing that wasn't expected. I hope it heals, though." She ran her hand across Nikita's spine, rewarded with a meow.

Steve thought the organization had been tamed if not wiped out long ago, and hence was a bit taken aback by the mark. "I didn't think Fury was mad enough to send you into Hydra territory alone."

"It's my op. I've worked it for two years. Kid's stuff," she said, keeping the fact that Sanchez was an abusive son of a bitch who was soon to be buried within the next two months to herself. "And I'm not a rookie, Rogers."

"I know you're not. But if they're establishing themselves again, I don't understand why Fury hasn't told us anything." 

"They're not. Just some wannabes trying to stir things up in the international community. Hydra has commodity. The son-of-a-bitch whose punching bag I tend to star as is all rumor, no resurfacing. They need commodity. They won't have it when I'm done," she said, a murderous intention crossing her face.  
After sniffing to his food and finding nothing special, Nikita jumped to the arm of the chair and started prancing up her arm. 

"Things have a tendency to escalate," he said darkly, remembering the war all too well. 

Natasha recalled the first punch Sanchez had planted on her. "True. Point is, you're here and not in your bed. Having trouble sleeping, Rogers?" she asked. She eyed the bruises on her knuckles as her hand ran through Nikita's soft fur. 

"You seem restless yourself, Romanov," he said. Truth was, that he rarely did sleep. He didn't have nightmares very often, but he slept restlessly and thus deemed it better just to stay up and do something more productive than stare at the ceiling above his bed. 

"Occupational hazard," she replied. "I just got Barton sleeping. Things didn't... go as planned. In London, or when we got back. Fury was... " She trailed off, figuring Rogers wouldn't appreciate insubordination.

"He was a bit edgy before you got back. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was concerned," Steve said, shaking his head at the last part.

"Wow. Then I almost feel bad," she chuckled. 

"It could have something to do with Stark, though. He kept going on about that minor Doom Bot attack we had while you were gone. Fury debriefed us earlier, but you weren't there." He paused before continuing. "According to Tony, you were... occupied," he said, blushing.

Natasha didn't batter an eye, unembarrassed about the idea, but finding Rogers' reaction cute and amusing. Unlike Stark, she didn't tease him. "New York left us all a little shaky. Thrown off balance. Barton and I have been partners for very long."

"Yeah." He looked out the ridiculously large window, surprised to see that the sky had traded pitch black for dim grey.  
"You don't by any chance know anything about what happened to Fury's… uh… eye, do you?" He didn't want to say eye-patch, but saying eye seemed almost just as strange.

"My hand slipped," she replied dryly, the smallest of smirks on her face. "Could have been due to the lack of sleep." At this, she smiled, sending Steve a knowing smile.

Steve returned the smile despite knowing that it was inappropriate. Soon, the rest of the Avengers would wander zombie-like into the kitchen, demanding their share of coffee, save Thor, who would find the pop tarts faster than anybody could tell him where they were. 

Natasha scratched the kitten behind his right ear, causing him to roll over and purr endlessly, writhing in pleasure at the attention. Simple desires and needs, cats had. She eyed Steve's sketching pad where an unfinished drawing of a cat rested, carrying remarkable resemblance to Nikita.  
"Feel free to use him as a model anytime, Rogers," she said, uncomfortable with using first name. 'Steve' seemed too personal, and they hadn't talked often enough to consider themselves friends. "I will, however, need to borrow him for a while. I'm sure he'll return to you when he finds my company no longer soothing," she chuckled, scooping the kitten up into her arms, rewarded with a reproachful glare that ended when she continued scratching and caressing him. She found it amusing that Stark refused to bring the topic of neutering the cat up, looking every bit of personally offended at the mere suggestion. Natasha, however, knew the behavior of stray male cats and disagreed, if only to cause Stark discomfort at the concept. 

"He's a wonderful model," Steve said, looking affectionately at the kitten. It was nice to have a pet in the Tower--a distraction and a source of happiness for all of them, although Thor's degree of awe surpassed any of the others'.

Natasha smiled, but for different reasons. She hadn't been fond of the idea when Stark forced her to interact with the thing, but after acknowledging its presence as an annoyance, she had admitted its striking cuteness. Nikita now followed her everywhere except the armory, hissing at the noise from there.  
She picked the kitten up, leaving the common room and heading for Clint's quarters. She opened the door, being allowed access, and stopped in the threshold, dropping Nikita gently. She watched and observed amused as Nikita jumped unto the bed, eyed Clint's sleeping form suspiciously before moving to sprawl on his chest, rubbing his head affectionately against Clint's tummy. Natasha watched as Clint awoke to Nikita's claiming of him as his latest victim and staff.  
The shy rays of sun streamed lazily through the blinds, announcing the time of day as early morning. They were too far above ground to hear the buzz of the city and the traffic. A luxury but also a deprivation of a sense she usually relied on. 

Clint opened his eyes slowly, lifting his hand to identify the weight that pressed down on his chest. His fingers sank into soft fur, and momentarily confused, he lifted his head and stared into a pair of blue eyes. "What the...?" It took him a moment to remember that Stark had once brought a kitten home as compensation to Natasha.  
"How did you get in here?" he said quietly, lifting the furball off his chest and lowered it onto the pillow beside him. It wasn't until then that he noticed that he was alone in the bed save for the cat, and a multitude of impossible possibilities as to why she was not there rushed through his head. He knew that she had just woken up before him, but he couldn't help feeling disappointed at her absence.

Natasha moved from her firm location of invisibility and unto the bed, lying on her stomach as she reached for the playful kitten, which, unimpressed and reproachfully glaring at Clint, went to her, purring and meowing in response to her touch. " _My beautiful boys_ …" she whispered in Russian.  
The kitten rubbed his body against her face, to which she chuckled. Its moist nose touched the corner of her lips, resulting in a smile. "Nikita..." 

Clint turned so that he lay on his side. It was all so peaceful right now, Natasha by his side. Things were good. "You really think I'm beautiful?" he said quietly with a teasing smile. 

She kept playing with the purring kitten, surprised by the way the conversation was going. Yet she smiled, and continued in her mother tongue. " _Very much so. Possessively so_." She dragged one index finger along the line of his jaw before resuming the caressing of her cat. 

He lifted his hand to brush her hair away from her face, leaving it to rest behind her ear and letting his fingers trail the side of her neck. "I thought that was my role," he said.

Natasha didn't dare break eye contact and shy away to disprove him, didn't dare to tell him wrong and break the spell of the moment. Why couldn't things just stay simple? Instead, she pretended not to have understood him correctly.  
"Your role to be beautiful?" she said with mock tease. "I can see it. False lashes. Sexy little top. I think you should go for green eye-shadow, brings out your eyes." Her face cracked open in a smile and she was distracted from Nikita, who reproachfully hissed when she ceased her tender caresses.

Clint couldn't help the broad smile that spread across his face at the suggestion. "So beautiful that I distract you?" he said as she switched into English. 

She giggled, stretched her arms and moved to lie on her back. "Oh yes. Although you have sharp competition from Nikita," she stated as the kitten jumped on her stomach and started rubbing against it, making himself a place to lie.

"If I didn't know he was a cat, I'd be jealous," Clint said matter-of-factly, poking the tiny furball softly and leaving his hand to rest beside it on her stomach. 

Natasha teased and chuckled, although it sounded off when she had to keep her windpipe bent to observe her kitten and Clint.  
"Thereby expressing your desire to take his place?" she asked, eyeing the cat and his hand. She didn't mind the weight of them - both of them - on her stomach, but for Clint, she would have longed to have the layer of clothing off. Nikita eyed his rival with discontentment but was too lazy to move from his resting place. 

"I wouldn't mind," he teased, eyes briefly diverting to the little creature. Judging by the way it looked back at him, he would have sworn that it understood what they were saying.

"Good to know." She moved to lie on her side, facing Clint. Nikita used his small claws to futilely hold unto her stomach as if wall-climbing. Gravity made him stumble unto the covers, to which he shook his head and started licking himself. Natasha chuckled, scratching him behind his tiny ear. He didn't respond as if holding a grudge towards her for changing position. His tiny claws had penetrated the thin cotton top and scratched the sensitive skin beneath, not enough to draw blood but enough to remind her of the yellow bruises beneath.

The magic of the moment shattered as the incessant ringing of the alarm shot through the room, accompanied by Jarvis' voice over the speakers: "The presence of Doom Bots has been confirmed." 

Clint let out a frustrated noise as he rolled onto his back, covering his face with his hands. "I thought they beat those sonuvabitches while we were in London," he said, not trying to conceal his annoyance in the slightest. 

Natasha smiled at the anticipation of fighting. "You know how the kids do things when we leave. Half-hearted," she said with a broad smile, likewise jumping off the bed. She caught his gaze. "Meet you in five?" She had to go to her quarters to fetch mission-appropriate outfit. 

"If we want anything done around here, we have to do it ourselves, it seems..." he said, pulling out the top drawer in his dresser with more force than necessary. "Meet you in five." 

Natasha nodded, switching to full-on profession mode as she slipped into the Black Widow persona. She left his quarters, went to her own, peeled off her clothes and redressed in her standard suit, happy to see that her Widow's Bites had charged. Last time, when she'd caught Stark tinkering with them, they hadn't.  
By the time she rejoined Clint, she could see Rogers and Stark rounding the corner, Banner following them, presumably heading for the roof. 

Clint had changed into his suit and was strapping his quiver in place as they headed for the roof. He tried to avoid looking at Natasha, knowing that they were both as good as different persons compared to five minutes ago. It was a side effect of working for SHIELD--being able to slip into another personality seamlessly. Natasha did that better than anybody he could think of.  
Once they were all assembled on the roof, Clint hopped into the pilot's seat of the Quinjet, putting the headphones around his neck. Banner and Rogers climbed into the back of the jet, and Stark and Thor took off in their usual fashion.

Natasha buckled her seatbelt, knowing the Quinjet, while perfectly capable of aerial combat, had a messy if not abrupt start. She watched Barton from the corner of her eye but quickly went on to get reports on Stark's location and status quo. She was etching for a fight, had ever since Sanchez' punches. She saw Banner react to her changed hair color and smiled but didn't engage into conversation. She shouldn't have to; it was no secret amongst the Avengers that she still had missions on the side. She was SHIELD first and foremost. 

Clint put on the headphones and clicked his seatbelt into place, reading the location of the bots, Stark and Thor off the radar. "Let's kick those bitches into oblivion," he muttered as the Quinjet took off. 

Natasha awaited Stark's report, accompanied with some rude comment, but frowned at the number of Doom Bots. "How many of these things did you take down last time?" she called out to Rogers. "You said Fury had debriefed you. They must've had time to regroup." 

"Better hurry, there's a bunch," Stark said through the comm. Next to her, Steve spoke. "I lost count. But some of them retreated before we got them--Fury suspects they were just for reconnaissance purposes. These are most likely worse," he replied, recalling how the last wave of Bots hadn't done much else than shoot some bullets and small missiles at them.  
Clint went closer to the ground when they approached a formation of Bots, allowing Rogers to exit the jet. "Go get 'em, captain," Clint said, the rush of battle coursing through him. "You got the big gun, Nat?" he said, referring to the weapon mounted on the belly of the jet. 

Her eyes glinted with the thrill of a fight to come and she unclicked the seatbelt, with ease diving into the seat in front of the General Dynamics GAU-17/A that was under-mounted on the Quinjet.  
She had a natural affinity with most guns. Stuttgart had gone… well, but one of their own had been on Loki's side. She eyed Clint, recalling the horrible sensation that had accompanied the realization and acceptance of the possibility of having to take down one of their own. Not just that, she thought. Clint wasn't just a surnamed agent. They had worked close for longer than she cared to remember. She couldn't pinpoint when they'd vowed to protect each other so fiercely as they seemed to do naturally.

Clint steered the jet over a group of Bots, pleased to see a couple of them fall to the ground at the mercy of the GAU. He smiled broadly and turned sharply to the right in order to avoid a building. As he turned, he knocked one of the Bots over with the side of the jet, causing it to spiral towards the ground. It regained control, however, before it smashed against the asphalt, and headed right for the jet. Before Clint could turn again, dual lightning bolts hit them. He struggled frantically to regain control of the jet, but only managed to do so remotely.  
He knew he couldn't expect to keep it under control for long, and with one glance at Natasha, pulled up, rising as high into the sky above New York as he could. "Release the ’chute as soon as you're clear of the jet," he said to Natasha, catching her eyes. Determination and fear were evident in his features. Unsure of what would happen when he'd made sure she was safe, he didn't dare break their eye contact until the jet stalled, and he ejected her seat.  
"You might want to get angry now, doctor," he said, opening the hatch. Bruce leapt out of the jet, and Clint turned the snout downwards again, only to realize that it was in free fall and that he no longer had any hopes of controlling it. He prepared himself for the impact; crossed his arms, forming an x, pressed his chin against his chest and squeezed his eyes shut.  
He heard the deafening sound when the jet penetrated the building, felt the jabbing pain where the bent metal stabbed him and felt a warm pool form around his stomach and legs. It didn't take long before the black spots in front of his eyes dominated his vision, and he succumbed to the darkness. At least Natasha was safe. 

Natasha usually kept calm during distressed situations, which this undoubtedly had turned into, and could proudly declare herself lacking the blackouts other agents had described in their reports. If that signified a strong mind, she didn't know what had changed, because one moment, Clint shouted a suggestion and the fear penetrated his features, the next she felt herself jerk upward. She realized he'd used the emergency ejection protocol on her seat, forcing a parachute upon her when he should have focused on saving himself.  
When she landed, taking far too long to reclaim gravity, she forced herself to pinpoint the crash site, caring little about the mindless destruction being handled by Stark, Steve, and the Hulk. Above them, Thor swung his hammer with exuberance and might, destroying millions’ worth of robotic equipment without second thought. She grabbed hold of her guns, a thirst for revenge nearly overruling the desire to check up on her partner. Rogers' orders went unheard in her earpiece as she stormed across the damage, virtually unhurt, searching and slamming Widow’s Bites into the nearest Doom Bots with far too much force, a cold satisfaction filling her as the lights left their eyes. Using skills she couldn't even recall having used before or been taught, she sprinted to the black cloud where the Quinjet had gone down. Only when she opened her mouth to call out for him did she realize how dry her throat was. Her blonde hair blew on the wind as she stood like some warrior queen searching the wreckage. She couldn't even determine what had been tail on the Quinjet.  
She wanted to cry out for him, to get some answer, yet the stillness in her chest that had manifested with the desperation to get here seemed to have muted out any wild emotion. She forced herself to leap into the wreckage, eyes desperately searching although it was more of a mask than she cared to admit. The thought of Clint being dead seemed too implausible. She remembered teasing him this morning, watching her pet kitten fondly be jealous once he'd discovered he wasn't allowed to use the archer as bed.  
She was hollow with emotion, the perfect assassin in that moment, but it started to slip as she feverishly searched, burning her hands as she looked, caring little about the scratches she got.  
Soon, she heard someone land behind her, and turned around to fight, but relaxed little when she identified her teammate. The Thunder God’s words fell on semi-deaf ears. "Stark has located the archer, Lady Natasha. I saw fit to inform you and bring you to him. He is being taken by the Man of Iron to the nearest place of care."  
At the confirmation that Clint was, indeed, alive, she halted her search, rage filling her. She declined Thor's offer, finally registering her own injuries. The hollow succumbed her.

Tony’s first thought was that another Doom Bot had gone down, but when Jarvis informed him that the Quinjet was no longer airborne, he put two and two together. The damage done to the building was too great for a Doom Bot to have inflicted it. Once he was sure the rest of the team were aware, receiving a response from everybody else than Natasha and Clint, he dived and hovered over the pile of debris. "Jarvis?" he said, and an analysis of the bricks and metal beneath him appeared on the HUD.  
It was hard to tell the difference between crippled Quinjet and destroyed building, but eventually, he managed to find what used to be the nose of the jet. He lifted away the larger pieces of building and cut his way through the rest, reaching the insides of the jet in a matter of minutes.  
Used to battle and injury as he was, what he saw still made his stomach protest. Clint was dyed red with his own half-dried blood from the middle of the abdomen and down, a thick streak of blood making its way towards his chest from a wide cut in his forehead. Tony cut him free of the jet as carefully as possible, lifting him up and taking off towards the tower.  
"I'm bringing him in. Any sign of Romanov?" he asked over the comm., receiving a confirmation that she was safe, from Rogers. "Hang on, Legolas," Tony said after switching off the comm. as he flew as swiftly as his suit would allow towards the Tower.

Natasha only registered her own blackout as her eyes settled onto the chaos --or lack thereof, given the countless destroyed Doom Bots she had left in the wake of her maddening rage--and breathed for the first time since registering the facts. She stood, hair ablaze, eyes numb, body likewise, as a long line in the sky signified Stark's haste to get Clint to safety. She moved to get out of the destroyed debris, reaching for an abandoned motorcycle to aid her travel when she heard a voice that made her blood run cold.  
Luckily, the rest of the Avengers were out of sight, because she believed herself to be hallucinating due to the fumes. ”Agent Romanov? I need to detain you,” Coulson stated, not a hair out of order. 

\- 

Tony had rejoined the battle once Clint was safely in the med bay--being brought into the ER immediately--but as he did so, the lack of Bots surprised him. There was only few of them left, doing their best to put up a fight, but failing miserably. He assisted in bringing the remnants of the Doom Bot force down, and then headed for the Tower per Fury's request. Tony carried Rogers and Thor Banner, much to their disapproval, seeing as they missed a Quinjet.

Once back, Fury awaited them on the roof. Steve was the first one to notice that they were one short. "Where's Romanov?" he said, looking at Stark. Fury was the one who answered, though.

"She's with Agent Coulson," he said, and although Steve would have liked some more details, he didn't inquire further. When the Avengers remained silent, most likely due to Clint’s accident, Fury continued. "Agent Barton is not yet stable. He didn't take the blood transfusion very well, and they don't know when he'll wake up. Or if he will," he said darkly. 

After recovering from the shock of seeing her partner's handler alive, and a thorough debrief that left her rattled to the core along with a classified briefing of a mission yet to come due to her heightened regenerative abilities, Natasha numbly hijacked the vehicle and drove her way to the Tower, no emotion playing on her face. Or, at least, that's what she should have done, had Coulson not insisted to avoid handcuffs and instead escorted her to a vehicle that drove unbothered through the debris until it hit the roads that had not been affected by the battle. Despite wanting desperately to see for herself, she was assured by Coulson that Clint was 'being given the best care' along with an unspoken threat or order that she really shouldn't try to break free from her confinement. She recognized the authority and the order, despite wanting to disregard it. She grew paler as the adrenaline left her body, going into silent shock.  
Natasha was surprised when Coulson drove up to the Tower, and said emotionlessly: "Five minutes. Gear, clothes, discarding of current field wear," he said, and just about to express emotion, decided against, "shower. Quickly. And Natasha," he added, expressing brief respect. "Don't go see Barton. There's no time."  
She realized what it meant. Going up there as if she didn't care about her partner at all. It nearly brought tears to her eyes, but she nodded and accepted, riding the elevator up to her floor once she had exited the car and entered the building. She put on the facade she used for kills to avoid expression of emotion, knowing Stark's cameras and Jarvis would note her presence. 

"Dismissed," Fury said definitively, turning around and entering the building. Tony exchanged glances with Steve, suspecting that he was wondering the same as he was himself. Coulson had been pronounced dead.

Determined to get some answers, Tony took his usual path into the building, letting the robots strip him of his armor on the way. He went straight to his workshop, calling up surveillance footage from the past month. He made Jarvis search it for any trace of Coulson, and when he didn't find anything, Tony leaned on the nearest car, trying to figure out how the _hell_ he couldn't know about Coulson still being alive.  
The screens now showed current surveillance footage from around the building, and most of the hallways were deserted. Movement on Natasha's floor, however, caught his eye, and when he looked closer, he noticed that that it was Natasha herself, sporting a different suit from when they had battled Doom Bots shortly before. How could she go on a new mission so soon after her partner had been confined to the med bay? If the two thirds of the team who had met Fury on the roof didn't know if Clint was going to be okay, she sure as hell didn't.

Natasha showered quickly, determined to keep memories from flashing across her mind, and redressed in an outfit that would be able to endure fighting as well as posing as civilian. She packed the necessary items and went to the elevator, her finger lingering above the panel, tempted to defy her orders, a silent tear marching down her face. She did nothing to wipe it away, but did manage to leave her cold facade intact. Her grip in the strap of her duffel bag tightened and she suppressed a sob. Clint would be okay, he had to be. The doctors here were some of the best. Besides, Clint was too competent to let something happened. The thought made her angry. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha returns from her mission and gets to Clint in more ways than physically.

That evening, the mood in the common room was unnaturally muted. Tony had stayed in the workshop since they got back from the fight, trying to find some information on Coulson’s situation. When it kept failing, he decided to work on his suit in frustration. Banner had joined him for almost an hour at some point, but had left due to the volume of music Stark insisted in blasting through the workshop. Steve had been in the gym for the majority of the time, as he usually did after fights. The fact that only half of the Avengers were actually there didn't help either, and the reasons only made it worse. Clint in the hospital, Thor in Asgard for who-knows-what reason, and Natasha on an equally unknown mission. It dawned on Tony how used he had gotten to having all of them around--now that they weren't, it felt empty and wrong.

Natasha had returned, mood sullen by the result of the practical abduction to an off-site SHIELD base where Coulson had taken her for magical intervention. Aside from an archaic, ornamented bracelet around her wrist where a diamond bracelet had rested a day earlier, she was unchanged. This time, Coulson hadn't prohibited her from going to see her partner, which was then the first thing she did upon entering the Tower, riding the elevator to the med bay. Despite her dislike of him, she chose to use the comm. to talk to Stark upon getting into range, figuring he wouldn't lie out of compassion but rather by blunt in an attempt to spite her and show his equal dislike of her.   
"Stark?" She made no attempt to identify herself, knowing the billionaire was too hooked up with Jarvis to allow other people entrance, let alone use the comms. "What's Barton's condition?" 

Tony didn't immediately recognize the voice, most likely due to the lack of sleep and the ridiculous amount of coffee and alcohol he had ingested since leaving the common room. And when he realized it was Natasha, it took him another moment to comprehend what she was saying. Then a couple seconds recalling the last they'd heard from med bay. Once he had processed the question, it was rather easy to answer.   
"He's still unconscious, but he's been talking deliriously, said your name a couple times. Mentioned the Chitauri as well. Looks like a mummy with all the bandages. They said he'll survive. None of us have been allowed to see him, Jarvis has kept us updated," he said, voice heavy and slow. He didn't want to admit that he'd checked the surveillance footage several times. "I don’t expect you're gonna spill where you've been?" he added.

She hesitated and flinched when Tony asked, but saw it better to maintain her orders rather than spill it, as Tony put it. She didn't ignore his snooping, though, perhaps sympathetic towards the strain in his voice. "A mission came up," she said coldly.   
"Who prevents you from seeing him if he's out of surgery?" If it was Clint himself that had banned them from seeing him weak, she would have been fine albeit angry about his stubbornness, but he was delirious or unconscious, neither of which would issue an actual request to be taken seriously. 

"He had two strokes since you left. They pronounced him dead for a couple minutes the second time. We can't in there because they need to be able to act quickly if it happens again, and for some reason, they seem to think we'd be in the way or something. Fury even put a couple agents there," he said, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.   
He contemplated telling her that they'd tied him down because he posed a danger to himself when he got delirious, kicking and hitting and thus risking hurting himself or others, and that it happened more and more often. He wasn't surprised that she’d gone on a mission--how much could Clint be worth to her now that he was hurt?

Natasha sucked in a breath, caring little about Stark seeing and hearing the display of emotion, sliding down the wall of the elevator. Feverishly fast Russian words made it through her head, but all she could focus on was the tight emotion in her chest. Clint could get very hurt. She could, too, but never like this. Clint could have died while she was following _orders_. She kept still, letting tears re-redden the scar below her eye. 

Taken aback when she let her guard down, Tony went silent for a little while. He hadn't ever seen her shed tears, and he hadn't ever expected to witness it, least of all because of another person. Maybe she was human after all. "Get some sleep. You look tired," he said when his brain didn't come up with anything better.   
"Threaten Fury tomorrow, punch him again or something," he said. He suspected that if anyone, Fury would let Natasha see him. Her reaction to his report regarding Clint’s condition taken into account, however, he hoped Fury would deny her access. On the other hand, she was the one who brought Clint back last time he wasn't quite himself and subsequently tied down. 

Having forgotten temporarily about Stark in the wake of her sudden outburst of emotion, Natasha recollected herself, carefully putting her walls into place. Her voice was almost not hoarse when she spoke. "I wouldn't be able to," she replied, regarding the suggestion of sleep. No, she'd just be reminded of how she'd fallen asleep against Clint the last time albeit briefly and unintended. She'd never forgive herself if she slept and Clint died. No, she'd sacrifice sleep for the horror and possibility of witnessing her partner die to stay by his side if given the opportunity. Few SHIELD agents had the guts to resist her and the rest owed her with the exception of Coulson and unaffiliated operatives.   
"But you should try to sleep, Tony. You sound awful," she said, attempting to spite Stark with their usual banter. Even she could tell she'd failed. The ping of the elevator announced her arrival to the med bay and she looked upwards at the camera as a goodbye and goodnight to the billionaire. 

"And you sound like you want to kill someone," he said, deciding to get more coffee. He exited the car he had been sitting in and walked right into Dummy. Knowing maintaining a standing position for much longer was a losing game, he sank to the floor, appreciating the coldness as he fell asleep. Having been awake for almost three days straight, it didn't matter that much where he slept. 

\- 

Natasha walked calmly through the hallways until she spotted the appointed room with its telltale guards. One was someone she had worked with on several occasions and the other a more green but capable - from what she'd seen in the gyms, but that was one thing, field experience another - and halted, lowering her gaze with as much intimidation as she could muster as she approached them.   
"Agents," she acknowledged, trying to pass but cut off by the sharp voice of one of them who managed to defy her wishes without looking terribly distraught. He did, however, swallow hard when her eyes settled on him. 

Clint was dreaming. It was like a video stuck on replay. The feeling didn't get any less terrifying, though. The piercing pain in his heart followed by the hollowness. He yelled out incomprehensible mashups of words as his memories—his life—was replaced once again. It was different from other times, though. This time, he couldn't wake up, because on matter how hard he tried, he never found Natasha. It was like his mind denied him the last part of the repetitive dream where he'd see her and it'd all come back and he'd wake up. Instead, he fought against the ghosts, struggling against the restraints around his legs and arms, causing waves of pain to shoot through him, and in his head, it was Loki that caused it. 

Upon hearing a muffled noise that resembled a painful moan, Natasha didn't hesitate to press her forearm against the neck of the agent who wouldn't allow her passage, pinning him to the wall long enough to see the shock and terror in his eyes as she uttered a threat that would haunt him for nights to come and probably issue a disciplinary for her, releasing him as he clattered to the floor, eyes dizzy.   
Then she pressed down the handle, widening her eyes as she saw Clint. His body language was anything but calm and his arms, despite being weakened by injury, kept flexing, pain jerking through him. She was by his side in three steps, never hesitant. If needed, she'd leave, but he couldn't possibly be worse, could he?   
"Clint," she whispered, knowing he wouldn't hear her but saying it as much for her own sanity as for his comfort. "Calm down, _my beautiful boy. I'm here_ ," she said softly in Russian. The veil of fog became less rigid, and Clint reached for it with all his might. But they dragged him back down. _He_ dragged him back down. He tried to hit him, but it only hurt more. "No!" he shouted, but it didn't do anything but make the pain greater. 

Upon Clint's exclamation, she flinched and grabbed his hand in an act that startled her as much as it would have anybody - she had acted on instinct - and didn't release it, nor did she wince as his hand gripped tightly and squeezed it with a force of an archer. It hurt, but it was enough for her to envision taking some of the pain so evidently visible on his face. She hated it with a passion. She kneeled down on the floor, no chair in the room and unwilling to leave him alone - what if the equipment failed in her absence - caressing his hand which was clutching hers as if his lifeline.   
" _I won't let them_ , Clint, I won't let them," she repeated almost fanatically, knowing that he had done what he did for far too long for 'them' not to become anonymous and ever-applying. 

The veil fell to the ground as something heaved him towards the surface. Beneath him, _he_ tried to get a hold of him again, but failed. A muffled voice reached him, and he could see it--the end of the dream. He held onto it for dear life, refusing to let go. And then the pressure that had weighed him down was gone. He sucked in a deep breath as if he had been submerged in water for too long, blinking rapidly a few times until he could see blurred shapes. But they weren't dark and threatening--they were light and welcoming. 

Natasha watched the monitors spike and then calm down, eyes frantically shooting to Clint, whose hand was still clutching hers, afraid to relax still. She held her breath, eyes too expressive, awaiting another heartbreaking nightmare to take his rest from him. How could she have left him in favor of a mission?, she thought bitterly, berating herself. They had vowed long ago - and both subsequently broken it - to never favor the other above the mission. Yet she knew what she had done was wrong, and it brought London's arguments to the surface once more. 

Clint looked around frantically, trying to make the shapes clear. They gradually morphed into something recognizable, one more so than the others. "Tasha," he whispered, voice unsteady. "You're okay." 

He didn't care to move, let alone let go of her hand, when a doctor, escorted by four SHIELD agents, entered the room and said, "Ill have to ask you to leave, agent Romanov."

Her head shot rapidly to the doctor in question, breaking the heartbreaking eye contact with Clint, eyes murderous. She did her best not to tense and squeeze his hand in something else than reassuring manner, but realized soon that one of the agents had been the one she had brutally knocked out upon her entrance. To Clint, she whispered. "Of course I'm okay, you big fool. You're such an idiot."   
All humor left her voice as she returned her attention, reluctantly, to the group of people. "As far as I am aware, doctor, there is currently a prohibition of people in this room, a maximum of two excluding medical personnel. How many of these men can claim to be that?" she asked vehemently.

"Safety precautions, Agent. I will ask you once more to leave, and if you refuse, you will be removed," the doctor said. 

Clint tensed at the idea of being left alone. "Don't go," he said. He wasn't sure if he could take being thrown into the darkness again, and for now, his grip on her hand was the only thing that kept him above the surface. 

Torn between Coulson's multiple threats of disciplinary punishment regarding her behavior around Fury and the raw need in her partner's eyes, she swallowed hard, conflicted. And Natasha Romanov didn't get conflicted. She made a choice and stuck to it. Eventually it came to a point where she had to, humiliatingly stripped of her seductive prowess, beg the doctor. "Are you absolutely sure?" she asked the doctor softly, hating how much it sounded like a girl in Red Room screaming 'I promise I'll behave'.   
"He's my partner," she said a little more steadily, loosing her grip on his hand to caress his hardened skin with her thumb. The gesture, so oddly domestic, came natural.

"Yes I am. He requires rest. Now, remove yourself, or..." the doctor started, but he was cut off by Fury who entered the room in his usual manner, seemingly unaffected by the situation. 

"Who the hell have you the right to tell my agents what to do? Let’s say you follow your own fucking suggestion," he said. Fury looked at him with the most intimidating expression he could muster, and eventually, the doctor left, albeit reluctantly. The agents who had accompanied him seemed confused for a moment, but one glance from Fury was enough to make them scram. The director turned his attention towards the assassins. "I want him back on duty as fast as possible. And then Agent Coulson would like to debrief you," he said, leaving the room without waiting for an answer.

Natasha, however startled by the lack of grudge on Fury's part, let go of a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Then she faced Clint once more. "Don't do that to me again," she said seriously despite knowing he could never commit to such a promise. Their lives were too hazardous to promise such. She squeezed his hand, this time reassuringly, pressing her lips to it. He still looked horrible, ever bit as horrible as Stark had sounded awful, but she was frozen in place, not wanting to leave despite the way her legs were cramping. Only then did she realize it had to look like a moviesque proposal, but they were never very soap opera, so she disregarded the notion. 

A vague smile formed on his lips. "Ill try," he said, although he knew this wouldn't be the last time something like this happened. He eyed the restraints keeping him in place with distrust.   
"Could you…?" he said, tugging slightly at the restrictive bands, but wincing at the pain it sent through him.

Natasha followed his line of sight, hesitating mentally before loosening and eventually removing the restraints. "You're getting me into more trouble than I'm worth," she said, attempting a smile that failed due to her paleness. To make up for it, she ran her non-intertwined hand through his spiky hair, which lacked any product due to his hospitalization, caressing his forehead until she reached the band-aid. It made her heart sink. 

Clint: "You're worth every bit of it," he said, trying to achieve a sitting position. Good thing his arms weren't as hurt as his legs and stomach. Once sitting, he looked down, assessing the amount of bandage they had wrapped him in.   
"Did I miss anything important while I was out?" he asked in an attempt to seem more well than he was. He hated to seem weak. 

"Stark got to you before I did," she admitted, feeling worse about it than she should have. "Banner, Thor, Rogers, and I managed to reduce their numbers by the time he came back. Quinjet's totaled. I was surprised Fury didn't chastise you about it right away. The rest of the Avengers have been waiting anxiously to be allowed to your room. I just returned," she said, leaving out Coulson and the debriefing and the subtle threats of being re-assigned if instances started to occur with the same frequency.

Clint looked at her in confusion. "Returned? How long was I out?" he asked, suspecting the worst. A day? A week? It sure felt like more.   
He didn't remember much from the Doom Bot attack—the only things that were completely clear to him was that his only thought had been to make sure that she was safe. And the feeling of falling when the darkness took him. He was glad that he had gotten hurt instead of her. Although she recovered faster than he did, he would have thought it was his fault that she got hurt.   
He was the pilot—it was his responsibility to ensure the safety of those aboard, no matter the cost. Fortunately, the cost hadn't been that great this time, but what about next time? What if something like this happened again? One thing was sure—he would do what it took to save her, and there was no way she could change his mind. He cared too much about her for that to happen. Hell, he loved her too much for that to happen. But love was a dangerous thing.

"About 13 hours, I think." She saw emotions cross his face, resulting in a determination but for what, she was unable to read. She stifled a yawn, rising sore from the floor due to her body protesting.   
"I was needed elsewhere," she admitted guilty. There, it was said before he'd overhear Stark make a snarky comment or Steve curiously ask her where she'd been. 

Clint shouldn't feel as disappointed as he did. Their duties as agents were the most important. When she rose, he made a move to follow her, resulting in troubled breathing and a painful abdomen.   
"Give me a hand. Got enough rest for at least a couple days," he said, looking at her expectantly. Truth was, that he needed something to occupy him. And lying in med bay like some weakling did not qualify. 

She looked at him skeptically, one brow cocked. "No you didn't," she told him firmly, gently using one index finger to push his chest back into a horizontal position. "And you'll stay here until you're _absolutely okay_ or I will bring you down to the gym myself and make sure you don't walk for a _month_."   
Losing the threat, she softly added. "I know about the nightmares, Clint. You don't sleep on your own. None of us do." She re-grabbed his hand. 

"How do you…? They're not… that bad," Clint lied, avoiding her eyes for a moment. When he looked at her again, his eyes were damp, and although he tried his best to hide it, he was pretty convinced that he failed.   
It was both relieving and annoying and a bit reassuring that he hadn't had to tell her about the nightmares himself. Relieving because he would never have known how to tell about them. Annoying because he _didn't want to seem weak_. Reassuring because she wouldn't leave him alone with the terrors. At least he hoped so. 

Natasha recognized the look on his face from the mirror in the mornings, pretty certain she was just as bad. Her voice was hoarse when she spoke. " _You died_."   
She sounded so hollow and she felt her shoulders sag with defeat although she could see that he'd defied death.   
"And _his_ words haunt you because you fear, deep down, even if you know they're not, that they're true or will be some day," she replied upon the look of denial on his face, the 'how' written across his face. She knew she was drawing from her own experiences with the God of Mischief, but unlike Clint and Selvig, she hadn't been mind-controlled. Just almost used. 

"Sometimes things seem more real than they are," he said. "Good and bad things alike." Especially in times of unawareness and carelessness--such as during sleep, or perfect mornings. 

"Loki said some things. Tried to manipulate me while I manipulated him. He said some things, things that I find myself admitting to without realizing. I don't sleep at all." Her voice changed into something cold as she quoted his words.   
" _You lie and kill in the service of liars and killers. You pretend to be separate, to have your own code, something that makes up for the horrors. But they are a part of you, and they will never go away!... No, I won't touch Barton. Not until I make him kill you. Slowly, intimately, in every way he knows you fear. And when he wakes, he'll have just enough time to see the work he's done, and when he screams, I'll break his skull. This is my bargain, you mewling quim._ " She finished the quote, a tear sliding down her cheek. 

"Are you afraid of me?" he whispered, voice insecure and hesitant. How could she believe what Loki had said? How could he? He wanted to get out of there. He couldn't bear being confined to the hospital bed, unable to do something— _anything_ —unable to get away. It was probably true that he wouldn't have minded hurting her while he was possessed by Loki, but not now—not ever. Maybe the dreams meant he was still under Loki’s control. Maybe he was still being used. 

"What? No!" she quickly said. "You're back. You're _mine_ ," she stated, claiming ownership as fiercely as Nikita had.   
"I'm afraid he was right about—me. Who says I've changed? Maybe I'm still just killing, just for another side. I'll never be normal. Nothing I do will wipe out who I was. And I wouldn't be able to bear if that went out on you." 

"You're right. Nothing you do will wipe out who you were. But that's not what matters. All that matters is who you _are_ ," he said, taking a deep breath as he forced himself into a sitting position again.   
"And you're mine," he stated once he had caught his breath again, echoing her own words. It didn't matter to him what she had done. The past was gone, and although it shouldn't be forgotten, it shouldn't be allowed to dictate. What had been done had been done, and there was nothing to do about it—the only thing there was something to do about was what had not yet been. 

Shocked by his approach, her lips slowly tucked into a genuine albeit small smile, squeezing his hand fondly. It carried scars years past from archery training, but she liked the way his fingertips and hands did everything to envelop hers.   
"You're hurt," she said, knowing she should inform the others of his state of wakefulness, but hit by sudden egoism and selfishness. 

Clint looked at her with an expression akin to that of a six year-old being told to go to bed. "Go figure. Can't stay here forever, though. They gotta have some crutches around here somewhere," he said. Clint had never done well with being unable to move, and the fact that he was limited by injuries only made it worse. 

"Do I need to repeat what I just said?" she asked, gesturing towards his medical clipboard by the end of his bed. She started reciting the list of injuries, which gradually made her flinch.   
"Even Stark's worried, Katniss." 

He followed her gesture with his eyes, skimming the extensive list. "Well, that all seems pretty bad..." he stated, deciding not to try and understand the Latin terms and weird acronyms. He looked up as she mentioned Stark.   
"Did anybody else get hurt? Bruce... he jumped out of the jet," he said, suddenly remembering the rest of the team. "The Other Guy made sure he was okay. Rogers sounded fine when I spoke to him. Thor left for Asgard on some diplomatic matter," she said, skipping the thesis she had for his sudden departure.   
"Stark… well, Stark's in an eternally damning place between intoxication and sobriety as of last time I talked to him." Then, trying to sound as casual as possible. "Oh, and Coulson's alive." 

For a moment, Clint thought everything was how it ought to be—none of the others were hurt, and Stark was semi-drunk. "But he died. On the Helicarrier. Died, as in not alive. Wouldn't Stark have found out one of the times he hacked SHIELD? Did you hit your head while I was out?" he said, trying not to sound frantic. 

Natasha smiled at the suggestion of injury. "Probably. But seeing as he came to brief me before the injury occurred, I don't doubt myself. He's alive. I was too stunned to ask why. It smells like Fury. And you just said it—Stark's always drunk. And we both know SHIELD doesn't keep everything on record," she added darkly, implying Fury and his plans might have been this from the beginning.   
She removed her jacket when it grew too warm, relieved at the temperature decrease when she did. Then she leaned in, letting go of his hand to cup his face and used the other to keep her balance on the railing, pressing her lips against his in a brief but not overly chaste kiss that she hoped expressed the protectiveness and possessiveness she had spoken of. She was careful not to rip any equipment, such as his IV, and had to keep herself from devouring all oxygen in his lungs. 

Clint returned the kiss carefully, relishing the moment. When their lips parted, he noticed something reflecting the light out of the corner of his eye. He looked down at her hand on the railing, noticing a bracelet where a diamond one had rested not too long prior.  
"Who gave you that?" he said, sounding more hostile than he meant to as his mind flashed back to London and the plane ride. 

She glanced downwards, their faces inches apart, seeing the bracelet. _You don't want to know. I don't want to know._ She opened her mouth to speak, to explain, to make some explanation that would banish any discomfort or terror, but couldn't make up a lie that would do so sufficiently. She decided for the truth albeit unelaborated.   
"SHIELD did. I was with Coulson, remember?" She couldn't exactly say that it was a magical artifact spelled by otherworldly hexes to ensure the linking of powers to a completely un-magical being. 

"Coulson. Why the hell would he give you a bracelet?" He was trying to come up with a plausible explanation, but failed. He couldn't see any incentive on Coulson's part to give Natasha a bracelet.   
Unless... "What was that briefing about?" It had to have something to do with that and some sort of mission. 

"Me hitting Fury, mainly," she admitted, which was true (as that had taken up most of the debriefing), not appreciating how Clint's heart rate was climbing on the monitor. Subsequently allowing her emotions to rule her during the Doom Bot attack had been another bullet point. 

"He deserved it," Clint said. "I just don't see how that's enough to make Coulson resurface... I mean, Stark has been pissing him off every time he got the chance since Coulson... uh... died."   
He knew it wasn't quite the same, but it seemed odd that Coulson chose to return now. He looked her in the eyes for a moment. "There's something you're not telling me." It was a statement rather than a suggestion or a question. None of it fit, and it annoyed him to no extent that he couldn't put the pieces together. 

"Yes," she confirmed, figuring lying outright about being honest towards him would do more harm than good. "I'm not gonna tell you." There was no ounce of childish playfulness or mischief in her voice, just a wistful acceptance. To her, with all the information she'd received, Coulson's resurfacing made sense. If it didn't, well, it wasn't her part to interfere. She certainly didn't have the authority to do so. 

Clint nodded slowly, knowing that he would have to accept that she wouldn't tell him, yet he felt strangely left out. Then again, he was confined to a hospital bed, so how much could he expect to be let in on? 

Why did she feel so bad for something that was such a crucial part of their rela—their _partnership_? She knew better than to talk about _those_ kinds of missions, knowing he possessed the same possessiveness as her and would do nothing to rub it in.   
She cleared her throat, speaking softly, tracing invisible patterns on his forearm. "About this morning..." 

A few seconds ticked by as Clint recalled the events of the morning, trying to make himself believe the fact that it had been _this morning_. It seemed so far away.   
"The only thing I wish hadn't happened his morning is that the alarm rang," he said, knowing that what they were doing—the way their partnership (or relationship, he wasn't sure what the hell it was anymore) was headed—wasn’t allowed per se. Yet he failed to feel guilty. 

Natasha looked upwards, not moving her tilted head. She felt relieved. Relieved that he didn't regret it either, and then struck with the yet-to-be pain that they couldn't allow it—that it wouldn't be allowed—to continue.   
Yet she said, without regret tinting her statement. "I liked it very much," she whispered, recalling the sheer domesticity of it all and the honest looks. 

"Me too," he said quietly, a small smile forming on his lips. He wanted this to go on, he really did. But he also knew that if they continued, and it went too far, SHIELD would take action. Unless they didn't find out. 

She returned the smile. "I'm going to grab a chair, okay? Floor makes me vain and sore," she said, jokingly at the former. Truth was, she was happy to flee the increasingly seriousness of the situation. While she was happy that they were finally both on the same page (a concept that, given her past, wouldn't last), she knew that an accompanying conversation would inevitably take place. Whereas SHIELD allowed its agents and some operatives to have personal lives of their own, they were the exception. While both high-asset agents and members of the Avengers Initiative, they couldn't allow themselves to be distracted. Although right now, Nat realized, she might be more distracted by having him taken away, which ironically proved her point. She didn't want to see it, so she changed the topic, hoping Clint, battered by battle, wouldn't notice.   
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, sending him a fond smile before letting go of his hand, about to leave the room in search for the nearest chair.

Once she had left the room, he tried to move his legs sideways in order to sit on the edge of the bed. It took a couple of tries, but then he managed to move them a bit. He was out of breath from the effort when he finally achieved his goal. One thing was talking to Natasha while being hurt--another thing was talking to Natasha while _looking_ hurt. He hated to seem weak, and when discussing things he wasn't quite sure about, it didn't exactly help. It wasn't as much the fact that he wanted her as it was the fact that he didn't want SHIELD to separate them. If they did, he didn't know if they could still see each other, or if they would be moved to separate units. Surely Stark, Rogers, Thor, and Banner could be the Avengers by themselves. 

The design of the med bay was absolutely foolish, because Natasha had to walk two hallways and practically make it back to the elevator to locate a moveable chair – surely now within the range of Stark's surveillance. She tucked its back under her arm and awkwardly made her way back to the room, relieved to see that the assigned SHIELD agents had left, but also alarmed by the lack of security if someo—. She stopped herself. Avengers Tower was too hard to break into, its security top-notch provided by Stark Industries. The worst thing that was within the risks of happening would be Stark breaking in and tiring the rest-needing archer.   
She pressed down the knob, pushed the door open with her hip and it was therefore her ass that made it into the room first. She hadn't even fully turned before she watched what was happening. "Barton," she warned, seeing his pale, sickly form sitting on the edge of the bed, heart rate alarmingly higher than it had been when he left. 

"Yes, Romanov?" he said, trying to sound joking but failing miserably. He couldn't even muster a smile. How pathetic. 

Natasha forced herself to remain still, frozen into place. She cringed at the use of her surname. Her surname and the fear it had invoked in so many had never been meant to be used as a joke, so harmlessly, so casually. He had obviously meant it as such. Anger boiled in her, ridiculous in nature. She was speechless, speechlessly angry at his attempt to simplify his situation. Didn't he realize that to provoke the use of his legs back would only end in further damage? Damage beyond healing?

Clint leaned forward out of habit, resting his forearms on his thighs. It took less than a second, though, before he winced and decided against it, sitting up straight once again. He considered returning his legs to their more comfortable position on the bed, but figured he wouldn't be able to lift them. Well, fuck.   
"Don't just stand there," he said, trying to maintain an even voice. The heavy breathing made it a bit difficult. 

Furious, she put the chair down hard, tramping to him, ice in her eyes. As carefully as she could - intent to bring him harm for his foolishness did stray her thoughts - she helped him get his legs back into bed. "Let's get one thing _very_ clear, Barton," she said, hissed almost.   
"I am not your nurse, nor your caretaker." She held back her breath until her heart had stopped racing and the vehemence had left her. "I'm your _partner_ and goddammit if I'll let you hurt yourself," she whispered.

"Can't really get more hurt than I already am," he said darkly. Once he was back in the bed, his breathing slowed down, and he could allow other things than the pain to occupy his brain. When she mentioned the word 'partner', it struck him—he was going to be stuck here for some time, and she was most likely going to go on missions without him, possibly with someone else. He didn't know if he was more jealous or possessive, or maybe scared. What if something happened to her while he wasn't there? 

Natasha gave him a look that challenged his statement. She was, after all, the Black Widow. That contradicted all she'd just admitted, yet it didn't lessen her words. She felt guilty: amidst his injuries, he was. And she couldn't deny wanting him in the most possessive of ways. She knew it was wrong. There had to be a SHIELD assessment somewhere on just how many bullet points this was wrong and shouldn't be - wouldn't be - allowed to happen. 'You care too much,' she wanted to say, but didn't. 

He leaned back, resting his head on the pillows. Truth be told, he was _really_ tired. Being caught in his nightmares for thirteen hours hadn't allowed him to rest—rather, it had contributed to his tiredness. That coupled with the fact that he ran out of breath whenever he attempted moving made one very sleepy Clint. He turned his head to look at Natasha.   
"I'm tired," he said guiltily. He didn't want to sleep. It wasn't as much the fear--he felt safe with her sitting by his side--as it was the unsettling feeling that she might leave him if he fell asleep. 

"Want me to lie with you?" she whispered, only half joking. She brushed her fingertips across his semi-sweaty forehead, not bothered by the sweat but by the way it carried evidence of the strain his body was currently enduring. 

Clint nodded slowly, not wanting to admit how glad it made him. Because frankly, it seemed ridiculous. Then again—maybe this wasn't all that ridiculous. Not if he had to trust his feelings, at least. 

Natasha was mildly surprised by his answer, but didn't show it on her face. She kicked off her shoes and used her arms to prop herself up on the edge of the bed, trying to find a balance point where she could get her legs up without scooting him over. 

Once she had settled down beside him, he pulled the blanket, which had been lying beside him since he woke up, over them. He didn't care if he was too forward. He felt his eyes close, letting the darkness take him once again. The only difference this time was that it felt safe. Safe, and right. 

Feeling him relax against her, Natasha didn't stifle the yawn that came soon after, feeling her eyes grow so tired and heavy and within moments, she was sound asleep. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha is summoned on a mission and is assigned to watch Loki. Neither of them are particularly happy about being assigned, but both are aware of the punishment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we enter Loki whom we developed an easier flow with although I'm not sure this is shown in the first chapter here.   
> We will get back to Clint later.

Natasha didn't realize how long she'd slept when she felt herself stir as a result of a stranger's presence. She didn't usually sleep soundly, alarmed by various factors as she had learnt very long ago. She couldn't doze off completely even if she wanted to. She laid for a while with closed eyes, assessing the situation, listening to the footsteps and subsequent halt. She forced herself not to tense as she slyly opened one eye, surprised to see Phil Coulson standing a couple of feet in front of Clint's face, a look of sympathy and something else that hardened in response to seeing her awake.  
Discontent, she disentangled herself from Clint's loving embrace, trying to come up with a viable reason to why she'd been wrapped up in her injured partner. Coulson didn't give her time.

"It's time," he revealed darkly and numbly. 

She shivered in response, sending a look in Clint's direction. He slept soundly due to the effects of the sedatives and various painkillers. He looked peaceful. "He's better off like this. Unaware," Coulson said and she nodded as she put her walls into place. 

She turned her back to Clint. "He's here?" she asked, fearing confirmation. 

"I am to take you to the facility," he said, gesturing towards the bracelet that ensured Loki couldn't use his magic and would feel every trick or blow he aimed at her himself. "You should start feeling it."

-

Loki stumbled slightly at the impact their landing caused due to the shackles that made it hard to keep his balance. When Thor looked at him with a half-worried, half-amused expression, he sincerely wished he wasn't wearing the muzzle so that he could have insulted him. But alas, his silver tongue was restricted. They had landed just outside the facility, which Thor had _oh so graciously_ informed him was their destination. As if he cared.  
The months of agony in an Asgardian prison, or rather, dungeon, had left him with little care for much. He didn't care if he was alive--his magic having been diminished. He didn't care if Thor was alive--him being the one who brought him back to Asgard. The only thing he did care about was his pride. He had sworn the day they threw him in the cell that he wouldn't let them break him. That pleasure he would deny them, no matter what it took. And he didn't intent to let go of that vow just yet.

It hadn't taken long to redress in leather pants and jacket and be escorted to the facility Coulson had taken her to earlier. This time well-rested, Natasha was slightly less cranky albeit just as aware that this was a punishment for not only the prisoner but her. A reprimand, so to speak. She'd endure it and hopefully flap back, but was aware that the temporary assignment could soon turn permanent when the length of the mission had been deemed undisclosed. She couldn't back out now, the bracelet identical to one that Loki would be wearing upon arrival. She had been selected to be his hostess and to use whatever force to contain him.  
She thought of the destruction he'd caused in New York and amongst the Avengers—not to mention the partner she'd left dead to the world. She walked as comfortably and intimidatingly through the facility as possible, pushing open the doors with only slight hesitation as a cold went through the bracelet. She stopped, eyeing it curiously. 

Loki was told to stand still by armed men. Anger rushed through him at being told what to do, and he channeled his energy, attempting to call upon his Jotun form. His eyes widened in surprise when it did nothing but sending shivers through him. He regained his composure quickly, however, as the doors in front of him were pushed open. 

She opened the doors without remarkable effect, assessing the room. The guards seemed to have it under control, given by the state of seething rage upon the trickster's face. Thor stood by his side, joined by SHIELD guards. They couldn't afford for anything to go wrong. The coolness of the bracelet ceased and she began her stride across the room.  
She greeted Thor with a friendly nod that turned cold when her eyes landed upon Loki, shackled and muzzled. No sympathy stirred in her chest. She wondered if he even recognized her, let alone remembered her. She was—what had his words been?—a mewling quim?—insignificant compared to the rest of the Avengers. Her hair shone golden, her face battered, she still managed a more intimidating aloofness, keeping her hands ready, should the need arise. 

He raised his chin as their eyes met, looking at her with as indifferent an attitude as he could muster. He recognized the look in her eyes, scanning his brain to remember where he had seen her. He was disappointed when he couldn't seem to recall much beyond the months spent in Asgard. He didn't get worried, though; he was sure that once the muzzle and the shackles were removed, for he was quite convinced they would be, lest they would just have left him in Asgard, he would be able to archive some of the things that occupied him.

As if magnetically repelling each other, she felt the bracelet resist as she brought up her hand, intending to render the shackles useless so that the linking spell could take over. "Are you sure this will work, Thor?" she asked the demi-god, not wanting to unleash Loki and his trickster magic upon New York once again although they were quite some time from Manhattan. 

"The sorcerers of Asgard have consulted dwarves on these bands. It is powerful magic, even to Asgardians. My brother will not be able to escape this, not even using his silver tongue," the warrior said, wistfulness penetrating. 

Natasha did not pity the mighty thunder god, but she did his familiar relation with the trickster. "Then let it be," she commanded, watching Thor beginning to unchain his brother. She kept her eyes steadily on Loki, not seeing recognition flare in the green orbs—different from before, she noted, having remembered how they'd narrowed feistily at her presence like a flame waiting to torch. 

Thor spoke in a low voice, addressing her, not his brother. "How is... everyone?" he asked hesitantly. 

"Recovering," she replied, not wanting to release information to the liesmith. Thor removed all but the last shackles before his hands went, oddly tender, to remove the muzzle. A soft click was heard as the liesmith was once again allowed speech. 

When Loki heard Thor asking about the others, the pieces clicked into place. He surely had seen her before, and despite her now blonde hair, he recognized her. His expression became distant for a fraction of a second as he recalled the events on the Helicarrier before he regained his composure. He clasped his hands together behind his back, earning him some sense of control with his situation, if only imaginary. "I see," he said, chin held high, letting his eyes glide over her. 

Natasha roped in an otherwise emotional remark. "I have no problems with you _seeing_ , Laufeyson. Understand that I simply don't _care_ ," she said. She held up the bracelet that rested, rune magic-bound, on her wrist, identical to the one he was wearing except hers specifically carried his name whereas his simply said her title.  
"And I'll be your hostess," she added, faking service. She had to be numb, otherwise he might read the worry on her face, not for him but for Clint—and she certainly, like SHIELD, didn't want that interest to re-spike. 

"I am delighted," he said with mock seriousness, a smirk forming on his lips. He was, truly, surprised by their choice of method to control him. From what he had gathered from Thor's jumbled comments on his trip to Midgard, he had expected something more restricting. 

"Don't be," she said, hating herself for getting implicated in a situation that had the consequences of being set up with Loki. Coulson had, without visible grudge holding, informed her that SHIELD needed his otherworldly magical expertise and that his powers would be dimmed by spells. She still wanted to know his limitations, though, because his alliances and loyalties were awful to predict. She knew that any attempt he made to harm her, magically or physically, would be felt upon his own body, but she was unsure whether the deal covered others as well. She did not like to be caught by surprise.  
Addressing Thor, she said: "Return to the others. Things need to be said. Cl— _Barton_ won't take my departure easily, considering the circumstances," she said to the tall demi-god, making sure to reveal nothing of mentioned circumstances. 

The god read the look in her eyes and nodded, turning as if to address Loki but deciding against. "I hope you relish this opportunity, brother." He turned to her, briefly. "Be on guard, Lady Natasha."

Loki looked briefly at Thor before shifting his gaze back to Natasha. "Rest assured," he said, tone intimidating. Now that he knew of his circumstances on Midgard, he wouldn't let the opportunity slip to do some harm to those who had denied him his rightful power all those months ago. 

Unthreatened by the obvious intimidating voice the God of Mischief had managed, she severed the last link, freeing the trickster to the restrictions of a common mortal. She knew Loki wouldn't adjust quickly to the situation and hoped not; it would unsettle her.  
Thor left them to rejoin the Avengers and Natasha felt herself doubt her decision to not tell them. It'd only do more damage and more members than not would try to perform their own macabre version of justice upon the magically crippled being. Despite her own feelings, she was also in charge of providing security, should anyone try to harm him. At all times.  
"Shall we?" she asked, not wanting to walk in front of him and take her eyes off the God. He looked thinner, insomniac, starved. Perhaps there was a bad side to Asgard, she mused. 

Loki didn't deign to answer, but merely cocked his head and looked at her in silent agreement—if that was what it was. He didn't agree with his circumstances at all, although they were better than those he had had in Asgard.

This would be a long assignment, she deemed. "Laufeyson, I do have places to be," she pointed out. "I file a bad report, you go back to Asgard. And somehow, I doubt they like you as much as I do," she said, her voice laced with sarcasm at the comment about liking him.  
She started walking, heading towards the gym. If she could make him fight, she had a sparring partner. If not, she could physically tire him by spending her energy. 

After a second’s time, he walked after her. "It appears that you will have the pleasure of my presence," he said, letting as much resentment and disapproval of the situation seep into his voice as possible.  
Truth be told, he did, no matter how much he wished he didn't, agree that she most likely hated him less than Asgard did, unless she decided to whip him, humiliate him publicly, deny him food and rest, and otherwise torture him, physically and mentally. 

Content with the small victory of the admission, however laced with emotion, she continued down the hallways. It was a relatively small and unknown base. SHIELD had had to provide a less-than-normally crappy (almost decent, even) apartment for the two, which she didn’t know how to feel about. Of course, anything that kept Loki out of New York and the range of Avengers Tower was good. When she entered the gym, she was happy to be able to declare it mostly deserted aside from a few agents, whose eyes widened in disbelief or infamy upon their entrance, deciding to skedaddle as she gave them an unimpressed gaze. Whether it was her reputation — well-spoken of amongst SHIELD staff — or Loki — who had escaped footage in NY — that scared them off, she didn’t care.  
Uncaring about where he chose to reposition himself as long as it was within her line of sight, she started removing her jacket and shoes, moving unto place bandages on her hands instead of boxing gloves. You didn’t have gloves when you fought, and your skin would have to get used to impact in training to prepare for the hurt of fighting. The tank top she was wearing underneath was black and her skin was mostly healed where bruises had marked her from Sanchez and the Doom Bot incident. She putted her hair in a horsetail to get it out of the way. 

Loki stood by the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Unimpressed, he looked over the gym—how primal these humans were. He was curtly reminded the oaf who claimed to be his brother, and thought to himself that he sure wouldn’t mind spending time in a place like this with his precious Midgardians. He eyed Natasha with a challenging gaze, tempted to try how far he could push his magical abilities before something didn’t go as planned. Yet he held his ground, not about to willingly admit his curiosity. 

Natasha eyed him back, walking casually to a punching bag, smiling openly in remembrance of Stark’s regular complaints when Rogers broke the hangers for his bags at the gym at home. She frowned at the designation. She hadn’t thought of the Tower as ‘home’ ever. Thinking of it, she hadn’t assigned anything the designation for decades.  
She warmed up in front of the punching bag, practicing kicks as well, not to tire herself but to wrestle the soreness out of her muscles. Sleeping against the railing of a hospital bed, even with Clint, didn’t result in comfortable positions. She’d slept worse places, though. When she felt she’d found her balance point, she gestured towards the mats.  
“Hey, feel like popping some of those knots after imprisonment?” she said casually, making sure to assess and analyze his answer. She didn’t like the word prison, having been in prisons herself (especially Siberia hadn’t been kind to her; luckily, she only remembered glimpses, not enough to issue Loki’s memories). 

Loki fixed his eyes at hers, sporting a what-do-you-think-this-is expression. He fought an urge to lash out at the word ‘prison’. Asgard had been so much more—so much worse—than any prison some Midgardian could ever imagine. 

She saw the anger flare momentarily only to be roped in. It almost disappointed her. The fight would have been easily won if started in a fit of rage. It wouldn’t have given her any read on him, though, and that was what she wanted. She moved towards him like a two-legged feline, stalking like a cat, eyes narrowed. 

Loki kept his stare pointed at her, but didn't stir. Recoiling would be a move of cowardice—something he did not do too well at being affiliated with. 

Natasha stopped, body language tense and awaiting, eyebrow cocked in semi-challenge. She wondered how much of a strain the prison had had on him—had it broken his spirit, but he was too proud to let her know? She had many enemies who would relish in the opportunity to fight her unarmed (and at least a couple of them would be successful, given her recent setbacks and injuries). She realized that he, like herself, despite having earned the name of liesmith and silver tongue, preferred a much less vocal means of communication. She'd have to watch herself, then. It was an art form she often used, but it had been quite some time since she had an equal opponent—and she was certain he was equal in that sense. 

He didn't move an inch, but merely looked at her. He wasn't going to give in to her silent persuasions. Yet he couldn't help the sparks of green energy that crackled around his fingers, and he curled his hands into fists, eyeing her predatorily.

Natasha watched him with neither anticipation nor mockery, trying to predict his eventual attack. She wouldn't be the first, she'd decided. Her wrapped hands were forced to relax and not tighten in fists. She'd allow him the first blow before she'd return the favor. If the magics were right, he wouldn't be allowed to use his sorcery, but his physical force and strength would remain. He wasn't helpless. 

He cocked his head, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "Do you _care_ about others, Agent Romanov? Others beside yourself and the archer?" he said, their conversation on the Helicarrier coming to mind. 

She tensed a little bit at the well-aimed comment and offhanded mention of Clint. She forced herself to overcome the discomfort. Did she?, she thought, thinking about his question and her reply.  
She wasn't indifferent towards her teammates' pain (although some less than others) and had appreciated the brief friendships to people like Pepper Potts or Agent Sitwell. She could choose to be indifferent about the people she saved during the Doom Bot attack, because ultimately, she did what she'd done for SHIELD. It was a job. Then she thought about Steve and Nikita and Banner. She tried to choose her words carefully. She wasn't about to deny her care for Clint—something undefined, sure, but far too new and it hadn't been the question—but merely answer his question as sincerely as possible. "I do." _But there was a time where I didn't._

Her answer surprised him. He had not expected that the Black Widow would be interested in keeping other people than herself—and maybe that foolish archer—alive. "Then why do you still kill for a living?" he said.  
Since she had been assigned the job of monitoring him, she still worked for SHIELD, which meant that she still killed. Loki hadn't forgotten the things he had seen her do in Barton's memories. 

"My care is not extended to everybody. It needs to be earned over time. Besides, those that can, do. I do as I'm ordered," she replied ambiguously. She never questioned her own code of conduct or morals.  
Plenty of those she killed were bad, but she was willing to admit that there might have been some good ones amongst them. Like Alexei, she mused, having to look away. She hadn't thought about him for a long time. He'd been on the short list, too. 

"A puppet," he said, wondering why she engaged in conversation with him. He could not believe it was an act of sympathy or friendliness. It seemed strange to him that anyone would talk to him. Nobody had for months, if one doesn't count the occasional shout or mock. 

Natasha smiled. People had done a worse job of underestimating her. "Perhaps. If I do not care, does it then matter? What of you, Liesmith? Cat caught your silver tongue? How would you designate yourself in this design? _Prisoner, perhaps_?" she asked in Russian, wanting to prove of disprove Thor’s claim about languages of Midgard and comprehension.  
It sent goose bumps through her to use her mother tongue and he'd know. There was a gracefulness and richness to using a mother tongue. She waited his reply but moved to unlock a cabinet, retrieving a metal case with throwing knives that glinted in the light. 

His eyes followed the knives, a bored expression dominating his features. He remembered training with such contraptions in Asgard, but that was long ago—centuries even. Back when he had been a child. 

Natasha’s eyes lingered at the old weapons. She had been a spy when guns hadn't been the most reliable of weapons and was well-versed in the knife-throwing art. She placed the blades between her fingers, no handle for her to grasp on, then spun around, eyeing the punching bag that hung raggedy in the corner. Her eyes focused on the cord it hung in, as her body fell into silence and complete stillness. Her bruised knuckles tightened familiarly and the knives became silver claws until she, with lethal force, threw the first knife, hitting two inches off center.  
She frowned, but didn't give the liesmith enough time to comment before she threw the remaining two of her right hand. There was not enough room for an eyeball between their target, the first one having sliced the rope only nanoseconds before the second one had, leaving a piece of rope attached to the ceiling, a little bit that had been caught between the slices and the rope attached to the bag as it had fallen to the ground.

The sound of a broadcast on the TV in the end of the gym jerked her attention from the satisfaction. "... _Hours ago, Manhattan was overrun by robotic beings that were eventually taken down by the mysterious Avengers, all of whose members seemed to be in attendance. However, during the chaotic battle, reports of destruction upon the city came in and here, hours later, it is still unknown whether the damage was the result of robotics or the Avengers themselves as their technology, a fighterplane of some sorts that opened direct fire on the robots, crashed in the duration of the fight. The robots were brought down by Captain America, Thor, and Iron Man, the masked billionaire, not to mention the less-than discreet Hulk. Tony Stark has yet to announce whether the members escaped the battle unharmed. As you all know, Tony Stark is the man behind the iron mask..._ " 

Loki looked with mild curiosity as she threw the knives. To think that the Midgardians would waste their time on those automatic monstrosities they called guns when they could use a pure form of weapon such as this. Then again, they had never been the smartest beings in the universe. Not the dumbest either, but certainly not the smartest.  
His head jerked to the right as some box on the wall emitted sounds. He listened for a moment, then smirked at the thought of a member of the Avengers being hurt. They had mentioned the Captain, Hulk (he winced slightly at the mentioning), Iron Man, and his idiotic brother. Natasha was here with him, which meant…  
"So. The hawk was injured. How come you're spending your time with me?" he said, his tone dark. He turned his head towards her as he spoke. 

Natasha stiffened at the ease of which he mentioned Barton. She tried as passively as possible to make her words casual as she retrieved the knives. She caressed them like one would someone you cared for. They were as intimate as sexual relations were to people other places. She cared little for sexual relations, her only friends having been Death and Stealth. "You assume you are the only one being punished for wrongdoings, Laufeyson..." 

"Oh, I know you have done much wrong, Romanov. But I recall you claiming to owe him a debt. I do not see how you would do that by letting him get hurt," he said, taking a couple slow, predatory steps towards her. 

She raised an eyebrow challengingly at his chosen remark. She remembered his words very well, but also knew that she couldn't have done anything differently. Her hospital visit had proven that. The amusing part was that Loki thought he could get a reaction from her. She had accepted that Barton would inevitably and countlessly get hurt; she wasn't personally responsible for it. She put the knives down, suddenly calm. She walked close to him, looking up at his eyes, unflinching. "That sometimes means picking up the pieces. I don't see anybody volunteering to do that for you." 

"I am surprised anyone would for you. You are no less a monster than I am," he said, spitting out the word 'monster' as though it was toxic. 

Natasha stepped back, visibly taken aback by his choice of words. He might have accused her, but the word choice was dual. Interesting. " _Fine_. Let's go and have a freak show then," she said, grabbing her jacket to depart the gym. Her plan had failed, although she wouldn't call it a failure. She flashed the keys Coulson had given her, slowly making her way to the door. 

Loki crossed his arms over his chest. "I am not going to follow you around like a dog," he said. He did not intend to let anybody tell him what to do—least of all some Midgardian. 

She stared at him dumbfounded. He was no better than a child! "I'm not a dog person. And I merely assumed His _Majesty_ wanted a change of clothes, and perhaps a bath was in order," she snapped in mockery. "And, besides, _this_ ," - she pointed to the bracelet - "enables me to drag you around like a bird on a wire if I wanted to. Understood?" Natasha said, her voice dripping with fatality. 

"Cats do not follow," he said, a little cat made from green energy walking across his forearm. He had to admit that a bath sounded compelling. Aside from the times the Asgardians had splashed cold water over him, or held his head under equally cold water till his lungs burned, he hadn’t had the chance to bathe. His gaze shifted to her at the last comment, and the cat dissolved.  
"I would have thought that _you_ preferred other methods than simple exploitation," he said, voice challenging as his eyes drifted to the bracelet on his own wrist. 

Natasha smirked, her voice dropping a few notes into a sultry huskiness, staring at him with bedroom eyes that made most men blush and Clint stutter. She wondered curiously if Loki was above such desires, knowing already that she wouldn't get the same reaction out of him, but perhaps a variation due to the seclusion. "I take what I get, Loki."  
She eyed the green mist that had been a cat. "And on Earth, cats have longer tails," she supplied casually, her voice still on a seductive key. 

Loki cocked his head, a slight smirk showing itself. "Is that so," he said, voice low. A train of thought rushed through his head at lightning speed, putting together a plan to get close enough to the Avengers to do harm. 

She eyed the TV that had been showing footage of the Avengers' takedown of the Doom Bots hours earlier. She knew that would be the closest thing she would get to proximity the next long while. She'd have to be satisfied with reports on Clint's condition and get someone to feed Nikita, something that she knew they would do without hesitation. It made her wistful to know she was that replaceable, but it ultimately served her good.  
She overcame her situation. "I'll fetch us a ride," she said, this time not waiting for him to follow, but expecting him to.  
She had been offered to take whatever vehicle from the base, but felt sad at the thought of not having to hotwire a car like the last time she and Clint had bailed after a debriefing. Their feat would have done Stark proud. However, she was already being watched. She couldn't risk too much attention.  
Nevertheless, she paused when she spotted the black Audi, whistling softly. She wasn't a materialist; she just appreciated shiny things because her aliases did. After a second’s hesitation, Loki followed. Although he didn't want to be told what to do, he didn't want to be standing somewhere seemingly random for too long. He couldn't help wondering what she meant by 'ride'. He had seen those boxes with wheels, and suspected it was one of those that she would insist he entered. 

Natasha smiled without restraint, unsurprised when the key fit. Coulson knew her unsettlingly well. She threw the jacket into the bag, staring at the starved God when he didn't enter. 

Loki stared at the thing suspiciously. Now that he saw it up close, it occurred much more unsettling than when he had seen them from a distance. 

"It won't bite," she said, then added muttering, "But I might." Louder, she began: "I read the file. You rode on the back of something similar when you were here. Don't play the phobia card. You want a shower?"  
She tapped the passenger's seat and opened the door from where she sat, "You'll need to ride." 

"I did not have much of a _choice_ last time I was here," he said furiously, his anger fed by the memory of his last trip to New York. He had been controlled by the infinity gem, not much more of a master of his actions than Clint and Selvig had been of theirs. Nevertheless, he reluctantly entered, closing the door beside him with more force than necessary. 

Natasha physically had to restrain herself from slapping him in a fit of rage. How dared he claim such after what he'd done to Clint? Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel but she forced herself to cool down.  
It was an icy ride of silence until she parked in front of the apartment complex, fairly decent without raising suspicion. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Loki stared out the windows at the community they passed, streets and people. People who hadn't been tainted by his harm and hopefully never would. She tried to rope in her fury and tried to enjoy the car's engineering and smooth transitions.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha and Loki accustom themselves to the hazardous life of domesticity and imprisonment, and the audacious helpful attitudes of shop clerks.

The ride to the apartment complex was highly unpleasant. It wasn't until the car finally pulled up that Loki dared let go of the edge of his seat. He hadn't realized he had been holding it—his attention had been claimed by the people outside the car. They seemed so... happy. A sad feeling overwhelmed him. It had been a long time since he had felt happy.

Eventually, Natasha moved to get out of the car. She wanted to tell him to behave, finding it a natural conclusion any sane person would make, but couldn't find the words. She opened the door and entered the building, waiting for Loki. 

It took Loki a moment to figure out how to actually open the door. When he did, he wanted to get out as quickly as possible, and banged his head against the doorframe as he did so. He slammed the door shut, letting some of his frustrations out on the car. It wasn't just because he hit his head—lord knows he'd gotten used to physical pain over the last couple of months—but also something else. He didn't know how to act around people. Ever since he fell from the Bifrost, his life had been about surviving, thus causing him to teach himself how to distance himself from everybody and everything, except his instincts. He couldn't help the slight feeling of envy that crept over him as he saw how simple things were for people on Midgard. At least the people that lived here. They were just there. They merely existed. But it wasn't the same kind of hopeless, lonely existence as he had felt—they had others, and didn't exist with the sole purpose of existing, as he had done and still did. 

Natasha heard the bang but decided, for the sake of male pride, to behave as if she hadn't. When her keys jiggled against the door to the semi-decent apartment, she was awarded with the click of compliance. She opened it cautiously, jittery from too many missions to allow the apartment to go unsearched, but was surprised when she had done so and still managed to be surprised when she heard a familiar meow and a subsequently rubbing against her leg. Nikita stood, reproachfully staring as if he'd been waiting for hours. Despite herself, she couldn't help but smile at the sight of something—some _one_ familiar in her secluded life with the God. 

Loki eyed the furry creature curiously. He hadn't expected to be living alongside a cat, although he didn't have any objections. Maybe it would be comforting to have something less human nearby, if only a little bit. They were simply easier to be around. 

Natasha chuckled when Nikita took the opportunity to jump into her arms and purr incredibly, happy to reunite. She pondered who had brought him, but decided against it. The adolescent cat's collar jiggled against her bracelet as she padded it. Afterwards, it yawned, licked its front paw and zoomed in on Loki with a look of incredible curiosity and observation, dropping from her arms to meow and stalk towards the god in question. He neither hissed nor expressed his reproachfulness as he so often did.

Loki didn't lean down to touch the cat, but simply eyed it. He broke out of his trance-like condition when Natasha took a step inside the apartment, and he remembered why he had looked forward to get here.  
He had to bite back some of his pride in order to ask: "Where's the bath?" he said it neutrally, unwilling to let his eagerness to feel warm water show. 

She lead him to the bathroom, which was decent by SHIELD's standards and in comparison to what she'd been issued in the past on solo and partner missions. Her only regret (aside from choice of roommate) was that it seemed to be a one-bedroom apartment. She opened the door, gestured towards the shower stall that was curtained with a purple shower curtain.  
"Should be some shampoo in the cabinet," she informed him. "Don't try to remove the jewelry." 

He didn't look at her as he went inside the bathroom, and closed the door as soon as he was inside. He pulled aside the purple curtain, and stared at the contraption for a moment. Figuring it wasn't going to pour water by itself, he stepped into the stall and tried twisting some of the handles. He jumped back as a stream of ice-cold water hit him on the head, and, upon mustering some self-control, he stepped forward again and started turning anything that could be turned frantically.  
Eventually, the tube that connected the showerhead and faucet snapped off, and water sprayed in all directions, soaking him to the bone. He swore loudly in Old Norse as he tried to shield himself against the cold water. 

Natasha hadn't had the time to return to the living room and drop herself into the couch, but she did have the time to have stripped off her jacket, leaving her in a white top when she heard the unmistakable yelp. Equally curious and frustrated, she went to locate him and knocked on the door. "You okay in there?" 

"Yes," he hissed, unwilling to admit that he probably couldn't handle this himself. The water kept pouring out, flooding the floor, and eventually, it started seeping out under the door. 

With the right amount of applied pressure, the door opened and her boots were soaked within seconds. She didn't screw her face up at the sight, instead taking notice of how cold the water was—freezing. Typical of SHIELD to rent somewhere with plumbing problems. Insert an ignorant god and that was what you got.  
She made her way through the ever-rising water, getting drenched and soaked in the process before she made it to the faucet, beginning to adjust the faucets that could, and in the absence of a toolbox with proper tool, drawing her ankle-holstered gun and started bashing it with pure professionalism against the pipe and faucet as she'd done so many times before. She was heavy-breathed and completely wet by the time the rain ceased, dripping from head to toe. 

Once the stream of water ceased, Loki looked down at himself. He was utterly soaked. So was Natasha, he noticed when he looked at her out of the corner of his eye. He shook his head slightly. How could Midgardian things be so darn annoying and hard to operate? Nevertheless, he couldn't help the wide grin that spread on his face when he came to the conclusion that the whole situation was somewhat hilarious. A bubbly feeling coursed through him, and in that instant, the past months didn't seem to mean anything. 

Natasha looked down herself, her top having turned transparent in the duration of the bathroom pool party, and stifled a sneeze. Finally, she had time to face Loki and would have scolded him if she hadn't seen the ridiculous expression on his face like someone who hadn't laughed or smiled in a long while. She didn't stop him crankily, but didn't discourage him either, so instead she watched as he took in the mess they were, trying not to direct her eyes further downwards. 

His eyes stopped at her now transparent top, but he quickly turned them away. He lifted his hands to run them through his hair, causing his shirt to glide upwards. "I uh..." he said, not quite knowing how to explain himself. He was starting to shake due to the coldness.

Was that embarrassment on his face? She didn't get the chance to smirk before a sneeze took her by surprise and violently caused her to drop her gun into the puddle as she recovered from the sneeze. She was now shivering. She eyed the drowning weapon, cussed in Russian but decided against retrieving it, already utterly cold. There was too much water to shower, so her eyes landed on the door. "I'll…" 

Loki looked briefly at the gun as it hit the water, then looked around in search of a dry spot, but gave up. He noticed some towels on a hanger on the wall that wasn't completely soaked, and he took a couple steps through the water in order to get one. He eyed her when she spoke, and followed her line of sight to the door, trying not to look at her for too long. He grabbed the towel and distracted himself with drying his face.

Natasha marched through the water and felt oddly relieved at the sensation of the soaked carpet beneath her feet. Without closing the door to the bathroom, and thus, the hangers, she began peeling off her clothes with her back turned to him, until she stood in her underwear. Turning, she couldn't help but batter her eyelashes at him as she requested:  
"Could you put them on the hanger? To contain the water to one room," she explained, having forgotten to be, well, _mean_ since the incident. She was still shivering, her body moist from being soaked, but the thought of the fireplace and the blanket she'd spotted on the couch improved the situation remarkably.

He took her clothes without looking at her, and hung it beside the half-dry towels. Then he closed the door and stripped off his own clothes, drying himself with the towel. It wasn't until it was too late he realized that he didn't have anything dry to put on. Momentarily conflicted, he decided to wrap the towel around his waist and go find some.  
He opened the door slowly, checking to make sure that she wasn't right outside. When he concluded that she wasn't, he exited the bathroom and made his way to a closet across the room. He didn't know where, or if, there was clothes, but he figured that the closet was a good guess. 

Natasha was shuffling through the sparse amount of clothes some SHIELD agent had brought for her with a frustrated indifference. They were supposed to lay low, and here she was, standing wearing a makeshift garb from a woolen blanket, hair soaked and no full outfit to wear. What was even worse was that SHIELD seemed to have been even sparser when it came to Loki's clothes, which was why she was trying to dig through the closet in search of something… casual. In any event, they'd have to go shopping. Imminently.  
She was happy to locate a pair of old denim jeans that fit her snugly. Whoever had gone through her own closet had thought to bring her nightshirt, a t-shirt that had once adorned Clint's body nicely but had since been discarded and claimed as hers. She sniffed it, cautious that she had little privacy if SHIELD knew this was her favorite, but also reluctant to offer it up as possible wear for the scantily dressed God in the other room. She had noticed his abs through his clothes. It had partly been why she'd departed that quickly. The bigshirt, along with a pair of questionable men's pants, would do for Loki. She located a green t-shirt for herself and slipped into a low-heeled pair of shoes. It'd have to do for now.  
"We're gonna have to go shopp—." She stopped upon seeing him, standing half-naked, an almost apologetic expression on his face, looking ever bit of terribly wet. Her heart skipped a beat when her eyes landed on the naked muscles, mind blank in embarrassing appreciation. 

Loki stared at the contents of the closet in disapproval. It was utterly empty except for a lone sock, which he figured wasn't good for anything. He started when he heard her voice, turning around and stumbling over his own feet on the way, causing him to hit the closet door. He regained his balance within a second, and stood straight, trying to ignore his state of undress. He cleared his throat, gesturing towards the closet. "There's no… there's nothing," he said. 

Natasha swallowed hard and regained composure. "Yeah, SHIELD's like that. Values resourcefulness. I found these—" She threw the sweatpants at him, then the big shirt she had so often found herself sleeping in (which had been washed clean of her scent), "—and you can burrow this. Good thing our shoes haven't gotten soaked. We need to shop, though, and get food, too, I suspect," she informed him, thinking of SHIELD's usual fashion of dropping even their most valuable agents in nowhere with little provision. 

Loki caught the pants and shirt, swinging the latter over his shoulder before pulling the former on under the towel, which he then let drop to the ground. He put on the shirt in one swift motion, eager to get clothed and cover the scars that adorned him. They were barely visible, especially in the dim light in the apartment, but he felt vulnerable when they weren't covered. He picked up the towel and threw it in the closet, figuring it didn't matter right now.  
It took him a moment to put the Midgardian term 'shop' into context, and when the pieces clicked, he said "Right. Shop," he started towards the hallway where they'd placed their shoes upon entering the apartment, stopping as he passed the bathroom. 

She had caught a brief and far from affirmative glance of scars that hadn't been there last time—or had they? Was god-like regeneration anyway like human? It reminded her of the angry red one on her face, so she halted her departure, grabbing her jacket which had basic makeup in it, positioning herself in front of the mirror to cover the Hydra crest with the same color as her skin tone. They'd be too noticeable without the makeup. She winced as the chemical makeup came into contact with the sore skin that was yet to have healed. 

He saw her cover the red mark on her face out of the corner of his eye as he put on his shoes. Although he didn't recognize it, he assumed that it must be some remnant from a mission. He grabbed the basic jacket he had been wearing on their way there, doing his best to keep his shoulders low as he put it on. It hurt more if he lifted them too high. When she finished covering the mark, he opened the door, stepping outside. He saw the car they had arrived in, and hoped dearly that they wouldn't have to drive too far in it. 

Natasha saw him eye the car and smiled. "We'll walk this time," she said, mentally deleting a mocking remark about his tantrum last time. She locked the door and casually walked to where he was standing. Her hair was still damp from the shower, but she'd managed to tame it into a ponytail.  
"Here's the rules: no surnames, no 'Agent', no visible magical display. We've been instructed to lay low and please abide by the rules because, frankly, it'll make both our lives easier. _Please_?" she begged with slight mockery. 

Relieved that they didn't have to drive in the car, he shoved his hands into his pockets. He smirked slightly at her rules, but decided that it would do him nothing good to break them. Yet. "As you wish, Natasha," he said, slightly amused. 

She looked at him in surprise when he used her first name, figuring him for finding a loophole in the rules to insult her. Nodding, she began walking, having spotted a couple of stores promising the sale of clothes during the ride here. She tried not to walk too closely, knowing that she would inevitably follow her own rule about adapting to people's assumptions. She had seen him wince as he had put on his jacket and knew the evidence of torture, or rather, the behavior that came after it. They walked, the sun reasonably warm but not warm enough to discard their jackets until they reached the first store.  
"Come in, мой красивый лжeц," [my handsome liar] she whispered, partly to ensure an easy cover story, partly to check if his Alltongue was as omnipresent as Thor claimed it was.

Loki shot her a look at the remark in Russian, and had to bite back a venomous response. He couldn't quite pinpoint the feeling that went through him—he knew that she didn't mean it, yet he didn't mind her saying it, although he should. It had been a while since anybody had spoken to him in a non-threatening manner, not to mention uttered a kind word towards him. He followed her into the shop and slowed down, taking in the sight. Those Midgardians had some truly weird habits. 

There was nothing remarkable about the store or how it was showcased, but she immediately did a threat assessment and groaned in the response to the sight of over-eager pair of clerks whose faces lit up brightly upon their entrance. She forced herself to smile and grabbed Loki by the arm, hurriedly whispering: "Go with whatever they assume." 

The female clerk, attractive in a sort of Midwestern average sort of way, spoke first. "Good day and welcome to Gentry's. How can we help you?"

Natasha had to admit she was frightening in an eager, un-jaded sort of way. She wondered if she was being paid by the hour or per purchase. "We're looking for casuals. Our apartment flooded and everything's a mess."

The female clerk expressed a questionably genuine amount of sympathy. "How horrible! But I must say, you make a lovely couple! How long have you two been together?"

Luckily, the male clerk managed to shanghai Loki before things could get awkward. "Marie! Let's help these people get some attires instead of getting their life-stories, shall we?"

Loki looked at Natasha with an annoyed expression, mouthing 'couple', as the male clerk dragged off with him. 

"I know just what you need—colours," the man said, far too excited. 

Loki had no clue what to do, and thus settled on staring at the clerk slightly murderously. He pulled a couple shirts down from the shelves and shoved them into Loki's arms along with a pair of light blue jeans. Loki let go of it immediately as though it had bit him, earning a confused look from the clerk. "No," he said, trying to control himself. 

The clerk regained his composure, picked up the discarded clothes, and said: "Okay. Okay. I apologize. Tell me, which colours do you like? Any particular styles?"

Loki stared at him blankly for a moment. "No. No. Green. Black," he said hurriedly when his mind failed to comprehend anything else than the word 'colour' and subsequently didn't come up with anything else than those two. 

The clerk nodded slowly, thinking for a moment. He then lifted a finger and walked a couple steps away, searching the shelves. "Green, black, casual," he said matter-of-factly, pulling out a simple black button-down shirt from a rack. He searched for another moment, then found a pair of loose-fitting black jeans and a dark green t-shirt.  
"Try these," he said, holding them out for Loki to take. 

After a moment’s hesitation, Loki did so, looking at the clerk in a slightly confused manner. The man gestured towards a dressing room, and Loki turned and started towards it. 

Natasha watched nervously as Loki was at the male clerk's beckon call and subsequent mercy. She had hoped the first day would go along without any murders, but given the look of sheer look of discontentment on Loki's face, she wasn't sure. She wanted to follow, but what girlfriends followed and were allowed entrance to the men's dressing rooms? An irrevocable image filled her dirty mind and she paled considerably as she tried to banish to image. She was only mildly disappointed when she did. Then she turned to—Marie, was it?—and tried her best not to scowl. "No pink. No salmon. No fuchsia."

Marie possibly beamed. "I have just the thing," she said, voice loud considering they were the only people in the store. "With Valentine's coming up, we have a lot of couples coming in," she informed her. 

Natasha couldn't think of this situation getting out of hand more rapidly. Her _dating_ Loki?

Once the curtain was closed, Loki halted, looking at himself in the tall mirror. He put the clothes on the stool, and took off his own shirt, careful not to strain his muscles too much. His ribs were visible, albeit only slightly, and the contours of his muscles were visible. He was pale—paler than he'd expected. He broke the momentary trance and tried on the clothes, concluding that it fit. Once he had put the clothes he had arrived in back on, he stared at the mirror again, shaking his head slightly.  
Exiting the room, he looked around for the male clerk, who spotted him and addressed him loudly. "How were they?"

Loki looked at the clothes in his hands as though he had forgotten about them, then said, "fine."

The clerk leaned closer to him, and Loki did his best not to draw away from him. "Between you and me, there's a nice little café just around the corner, and a flower shop right across the street from it," he said quietly, and Loki looked at him with a mixture of confusion and anger. How dared he assume that he and Natasha were together? However, he couldn't help the image that ran through his mind.  
Instead of opening his mouth and risking insulting the man, which he dearly wanted to, he smiled forcedly. 

For most parts, Natasha and Marie added equally to the pile of clothes to be tried on, and by the time she was allowed privacy in the dressing room - her mind having regularly scanned the store for sight of Loki - she let out a breath. 

Marie, however, didn't take it as a cue to stop talking. "Your matching bracelets are really cute, by the way. Gorgeous, too. He get them for you? He seems nice. And that body… yummy. I bet you're not sorry you get to lock the door with that at night, eh?"

Natasha tried on the clothes, eyeing an item Maria had added without her knowledge or consent. It was lingerie. Not saucy, not innocent, but enough to make her swallow hard at the thought of flaunting it in front of Loki. She checked the price tag and size, and added it to the pile of purchase without trying it on. If only to piss Fury off, she decided. It had nothing to do with her personal wishes to see the expression on his face if he saw her in—.  
She forced herself to think of something else. Puppies, football games, rain, old pieces of gum, anything that banished the settling heat in her midsection. After having tried on the last item of clothing without hearing any Norse exclamations from Loki, she smiled to Marie. "Do you have anything... formal? We may be attending this dinner thing at my work, and it's black-tie..."  
She feigned distress and confusion, if only to make Marie disappear. She rejoined the male clerk and Loki, decidedly more domestic now where both clerks had apparently decided they were a couple. "Hey, hot stuff. How's it going?" she said, smiling broadly and holstering her hands behind his neck. She tried not to apply weight, having seen his soreness in his movements on her way there. 

Loki stiffened as she placed her hands on his neck. The male clerk went with Marie when she informed him that they needed something formal, and once they were out of earshot, Loki forced himself not to jerk away from her touch. "Let. Go." He whispered, doing his best not to attract the clerks' attention. They approached them before he could do more to get her off him, however, and he reluctantly placed a hand on her lower back, mustering a small smile. 

"My compliance is yours," she whispered sarcastically, rolling her eyes as she let go, feigning interruption. She once again went with Marie to inspect the dress that turned out to be made from moss green satin. She tried it on briefly, noticing a glow to the bracelet, before telling the young clerk to pack her things in bags.  
She walked to the counter, watching as Marie put all the clothes of her choosing into cutesy bags, wisely having decided to pack the lingerie and dress first. She fumbled absentmindedly with some tacky jewelry as she waited, inspecting her nails, too. She was tired and they still needed to go grocery shopping. "Hey," she said, addressing Marie. "Do you live nearby? Is there a supermarket within walking distance?" Marie was happy to disclose that yes, she did, and there indeed was one, although they were pricy with organic and vegan items. 

The male clerk showed Loki the formal wear he had picked out for him—a black suit without too many unnecessary accessories—and once Loki had absentmindedly agreed, he went to the counter and packed everything. While he did so, Loki twisted the bracelet around his wrist in lack of something better to do. Once the clerk had packed his clothes, he took the bags, and waited for Marie to finish with Natasha's. She had picked out more than he had, but then again, she was more used to this sort of thing than he was. 

Natasha fished a credit card out of her wallet and watched as it was accepted by the store. Without further ado, she smiled and was handed the bags, gratefully without making a scene as Loki accepted the bags with his clothing. Marie and the male clerk cheerfully told them to have a good day and when they had exited the store, she groaned inaudibly at the relief. She carried two bags and one for the dress, and didn't hesitate to walk in the direction she'd been told to by Marie. They needed food, on speaking terms or not, and she'd endured too many evenings at Avengers Tower or on surveillance to consider pizza a likable food.

When they had walked a bit away from the store, he grabbed her arm and brought her to a stop. "I am _not_ going to let everybody think that I'm your boyfriend," he said, suppressing his anger as best as he could.

"Good, you're not completely clueless," she stated, ignoring the strength with which he'd grabbed her arm. Frankly, she was surprised at his use of the term. "Things are different here. People see what they want to see. If you have a special someone, fine, I won't go around proclaiming you as my _undying love_."

Loki stared at her for a moment, trying to keep himself from doing something he would regret. His mind wandered as her comment sank in, and he shook his head to banish the fleeting memories. "There is no such thing," he said, more to himself than to her, before he started down the street again, hands in his pockets. 

Natasha rolled her eyes in exhaustion rather than anger and started walking, soon locating the supermarket. There were more people here and people passed them without giving them a second glance. She grabbed a shopping basket and started searching aimlessly for products down the aisles. Aside from the basics, it had been a while since she'd cooked. Her cooking wasn't horrible—in fact, she had been successful in procuring and preparing delicious dishes on occasions, but she didn't go flaunting it in everybody's faces. In fact, it was only Clint that seemed to be aware of it. She glanced in Loki's directions. Thor wasn't picky, but as she had learnt, Thor and Loki were very different. She had no idea what he liked.  
"So... any requests?" she asked, gesturing towards the wide range of options. Perhaps he'd tasted something last time he was here, but she wasn't about to bring up the topic. The basket dangled on her arm, soon to be filled with items. 

Loki thought for a moment, slightly surprised that she asked. Looking around the supermarket, it seemed a daunting task to find anything in this mess, let alone spot something that would seem likeable.  
"Not too much meat," he said. In Asgard, before New York, that is, pretty much all they ever had was insane amounts of meat. After New York he hadn't had anything, much, except for the pieces of dry bread and leftover bones from the feasts they had thrown in his cell, which he, for the most part, had been too proud to eat.  
He studied a brightly colored box that read 'pop tarts', and remembered the idiotic oaf ranting about them not having such things on Asgard once shortly after they got back from Midgard. "Not those, either," he added, nodding towards the box. 

She smiled slightly at the disfavor of Thor's favorite items. She decided for something simple. "Do you know what pasta is?" she said, trying not to patronize him. She added bread and her favorite kinds of apples into the basket without looking up. It seemed terribly domestic. Several canned goods were added as well. She made a mental note of getting a tool that would do better than her backup at fixing the bathroom. 

No," Loki said, eyeing the things she added to the things she added to the basket. The cylindrical metal containers seemed suspicious. And the apples looked familiar, only they weren't golden. 

“It's... it's hard, made from dough made of durum wheat and water. You boil it and it becomes soft. It tastes pretty good when you add something to it, but mostly just makes sure you're fed."  
She continued her way down the aisles, content at finding items they needed. She figured she shouldn't consult him about their groceries, but it felt weird having him just follow without making any conversation. "What sort of flavors do you like? Sweet, salty, spicy…?" 

"Spicy is fine," he said, an uneasy feeling showing itself. This was getting increasingly uncomfortable. Not just because he thought it weird that she would be interested in his opinions, but also because what she had said about going with whatever people assumed seemed like a reality now. That was what they were doing, wasn't it? They were shopping, together, like couples did. Well, like he assumed couples did. He didn't have that much experience with Midgardian customs and traditions. He had had enough of people looking at him and seeing something that he wasn't—even if it was something as trivial as this. But for now, he would have to cope with it.

Natasha nodded in cohesion with his request and selected the basics of spicy food. She, like Thor, wasn't picky. Pickiness could get you killed if you attracted attention as a spy. No, she had begun to suspect that she was more like Loki, which was unsettling. Frankly, she was surprised at his continuous compliance aside from small acts of defiance.  
She found most of what they'd need, including ridiculous amounts of tea, and headed for the aisle that housed over-the-counter medicine. She'd need aspirin and cough medicine if the settling sensation in the back of her throat was any indication. The shower incident coupled with the wind had resulted in a possible cold. "You know," she began in a tone that bordered dangerously on apologetic. "I could imagine worse assignments." 

Loki took a moment to search her words for any hidden messages. When he didn't find any, he nodded slowly, contemplating whether he should keep his guards up. He decided against it. "I could imagine worse places to be," he said, avoiding eye contact and instead looking out the glass facade of the shop. He did his best to sound nonchalant, but knew that he couldn't hide the genuine undertone entirely. 

Content at the absence of a backlash, Natasha quickly dropped the medication into the filling basket, smiling reluctantly. 


	7. Chapter 7

Loki woke from his dreamless sleep, lying still for a moment, listening. After a short while, he kicked off the blankets and got up, dragging his sweatshirt over his head on the way. He ran his hands through his unruly hair a couple of times in an attempt to smooth it down, succeeding only partly.  
The walk to the kitchen was short, and he wasn't surprised to see that Natasha was already awake. He was surprised, however, when she kept looking at the screen in front of her instead of acknowledging his presence. Curious, he peeped over her shoulder, raising his eyebrows at the scene that unfolded on the screen.

Natasha had battled her insomnia with the ever-demanding requirement of the report on the Sanchez mission. She had written up the intel but needed to account for her injuries so they consisted with the medic's report. That, thanks to some SHIELD agent's acquiring of a video tape of the violent ordeal, had resulted in her having to watch as she was beaten horribly by a man taking great pride and thus, time, in his oddly affections. Her mind kept making moves with which she could have blocked and parried his blows, particularly the ones that sent her wobbling, but she had remained docile and afraid as had been required. She only flinched when the right hook hit her head with enough force to send her wobbly and remembered the particular result: the crest now embedded in her cheek. He'd been wearing his ring. 

Anger rose in Loki as he watched her receive blow after blow without even putting up a fight. He crossed his arms over his chest and straightened his back. "Maybe it is I who miss out on something, but I do not see the purpose of being beaten voluntarily," he said as he strode to the counter and picked up an apple. He leaned against the counter and watched the video, obscured by his viewing angle. 

"My purpose was intelligence gathering, not assassination. I was instructed not to reciprocate." She picked up on the way his body had tensed as he had seen the video. "My job is to know what marks desire," she said, half wistfully, half sultrily.   
"This man has a habit of liking violence to accompany sexual encounters. As you pointed out, I follow orders." She removed her eyes from the video as it repeated—she had already seen it thrice—and went from aggressive to sexual. The blood excited Sanchez. 

"Following orders," he repeated, looking at the apple in his hand. He remembered all too well how the warriors three and his _brother_ had just been 'following orders'. "You're not so different from everybody else in the universe. If the right person tells you to do something, you do it without blinking," he said. 

"I'll take that as a compliment, Loki," she said, giving him a subtle look. "Considering I rely on stealth to remain... ordinary. However, if you think this is blind obedience, ... it isn't," she said, recalling what little memory she had of her family before Red Room erased her self. 

Loki looked at her for a moment, then cocked his head a tiny bit. "Is this blind obedience? Or are you doing this for... intelligence, as well?" he said, referring to their situation.   
He hastily searched his brain for something that SHIELD could be interested in making him tell them, but didn't manage to find anything else than whatever he knew regarding the Tesseract and the Chitauri. But they had Thor, the archer and the scientist to ask about that—why not just let him rot in Asgard if all they wanted was that? There had to be something else, but he couldn't seem to figure it out, and it annoyed him more than vaguely. 

Natasha swallowed and chose her words carefully, trying to remain sincere. It was hard because she hadn't been the one to get the idea. "SHIELD wants... to know about magic. Thor expressed a want to milden your... sentence. Obviously Fury wasn't about to let you walk the world freely. I… made a mistake a couple of days before you got here. I... stepped out of line. My future is being scrutinized as we speak. My actions were performed in anger. I shouldn't have done what I did," she admitted softspokenly.

Loki wasn't surprised that SHIELD wanted to know about magic. The Midgardians had a habit of seeking to understand everything—he had seen what they'd done to try and understand the Tesseract. But magic was different. It wasn't something that you could learn. It was something that you could learn to _master_ , but those who master it have always had it. And even they don't fully understand it--they understand how it works and how it feels and how it can be used—but they don't understand magic itself.   
"I am afraid they will have a hard time getting what they want, then," Loki said, absentmindedly letting swirls of green energy move along the surface of the apple in his hand. 

She watched the energy with fascination, recalling the rush of power Loki's staff - or, as it had been fondly nicknamed by Stark, 'glowstick of destiny' - had sent through her as she had collapsed the wormhole. The sudden terror and drowning sensation of power in the purest sense had been unimaginable. Was that why the bracelets worked? Because she had experienced magic voluntarily?   
"Magic shouldn't be mastered by people of this world," she said darkly. "But enemies emerge. Can you blame SHIELD for wanting to be briefed on the matter?" 

"They will never be able to protect themselves against its full potential. What, I wonder, would be the purpose of trying?" he said, trying to hide the protectiveness in his voice. Magic was the only thing he had left that was his—or as much his as it could be with the bracelets. 

Natasha started fumbling with her bracelet, tracing the runes that made out his name. She knew so many languages, but this one was unfamiliar to her. It was a long time before she spoke. "If you're asking me, I cannot tell you. Even I remain uninformed as to the length of this assignment. I'll be your hostess until I'm told not to. In every sense of the word. The Asgardians were pretty specific as to your treatment."

He tensed at the last comment. "And what exactly did they demand that my treatment entail?" he asked as nonchalantly as possible. He was pretty convinced that SHIELD wouldn't hurt him unless he outright refused to give them information. Which he would. 

"Something Thor refused. He instead proposed my participation. I was surprised that he knew of my... quarrel … with SHIELD. Surprisingly, the rest of the Asgardians' demands were very generous and benign in intention. One was that you be not imprisoned unfavorably." 

"What would Thor refuse?" Loki said, paying little attention to the part about the Asgardians’ request regarding his imprisonment. Maybe they thought they were the only ones who were allowed to treat him like dirt. 

Natasha noticed his choice of words to pay attention to. She carefully assessed her options. "That you be stripped of all remnants of magic and allowed the lifespan of a mortal," she breathed, rising from the chair, shutting the laptop off. She moved to make tea. 

The world stopped turning. It shouldn't, but it did. Loki also shouldn't be shaking his head in disbelief, because damn, when did he start showing his emotions this way? But nothing was as it should be. His magic was already at a minimum, but it was all he had left of what he was before... everything. He didn't even notice that the apple fell to the floor with a thump, and he barely noticed that he left the kitchen. She could be lying, a small voice inside his head said. Hoped. But he knew that she most likely wasn't.   
He went to the bathroom without seeing, turned on the tap and let the water pour into his hands before shooting sparks through it. He had used this trick when he was younger to assess his progress in learning magic. In the water, he could amplify the energy without causing anything or anyone damage. The energy level stopped rising too soon. How could he not have realized that his magic was being drained until now? He turned off the tap and put both hands on the counter, avoiding his own gaze in the mirror. 

A shock went through Natasha’s hand, causing her to drop the cup on the floor, shattering it. Damn, it had hurt. Actually, it'd hurt a lot. Mainly because it had been so unexpected. She stared at the hand in disbelief. "Laufeyson, what're you doing?" she cried, more cranky than upset. In theory, his magic should grow at her proximity, allowing him usage of all non-aggressive magic. She clutched her hand.   
She went to see him, surprised that he'd closed the door. Carefully, she knocked, banishing most of her anger. "Loki? You okay?" For some reason, she felt more comfortable having him in sight. Obviously to keep an eye on him, but it seemed as if the bracelets calmed in the presence of each other. Or perhaps it was due to the fact they had been crammed up against each other for two days. 

Loki ripped open the door and pushed her aside, taking a few steps into the room. He looked out the window for a moment and ran his hands through his hair. He kept his back turned on her, knowing that his composure would fail him if he dared look at her. 

"Hey!" she said in response to being pushed aside, but halted her scolding when she realized how jumpy he was. "Loki...?" 

He shook his head slowly, trying to calm his racing thoughts. The past months ran through his mind, and he picked up on every foggy memory of trying to use his magic. In the start, he had fought back with all his might, but as the torture had grown harsher, his resistance had slowly but surely faltered. He hadn't realized that it was because his magic was being _drained_ until now. When they gave him the bracelet and shipped him off to Midgard, his powers had been restored somewhat. But that wasn't because he had grown stronger himself. That was because of the magic embedded in the bracelets. Their goal was to empty him completely of his magic, and it scared him.   
He heard his name being uttered, but it seemed far away. It took him a couple seconds to register it, and when he did, it was as though the world came back. "Yes," he said when he had regained some sort of control of his voice.   
He didn't know whether to feel betrayed or angry or empty, so a mix of all three settled in him. It hit him that he hadn't felt like this since he was holding onto Gungnir, hanging from the rainbow bridge. 

Natasha saw a thousand and one emotions play on his face at a painful pace. Unsurely, she put her hand on his shoulder, touch gentle.   
"Loki, calm down, you're—" _what, scaring me?_ What would he care about scaring her? He was the enemy. He merely seemed confused and lost instead of villainous. A heat began to settle around her bracelet and she wondered if it was his use of magic that was causing it. 

"What? What am I? What exactly am I?" he said, turning to face her and shying away from her touch at the same time. He spread out his arms in a questioning gesture.   
"I am something that needs to be gotten rid of," he said, breathing rapidly. By taking his magic, they took the essence of his being, rendering him clueless as to why he should be left alive. Maybe it was one last act of torture. Maybe they hoped he'd regret what he'd done. At least he wouldn't have to stay when they'd finished draining him. That was one of the perks of being mortal. 

"Here," she said in one breath. "You're here." She closed her eyes and opened them, her exhaustion starting to crack her walls open.   
"Thor wouldn't allow them to take your magic from you or to reduce your… immortality... to that of a mortal. He won't do that to you no matter what you've done." She moved to catch his eyes, that raging green, forcing him to meet her eyes, exhaustion showing her emotions. 

"You would," he said. That was why she had been assigned to be his hostess, wasn't it? To do what Thor wouldn't. She had said so herself. _Instead he proposed my participation_.

"Can I be honest?" she asked and did not wait for a reply. "I am here because Thor doesn't trust himself around you. He wants to forgive you, and he knows that he can't be relied upon if he allows that to happen too soon. SHIELD's pretty sure I wouldn't let you mess with my head. After Barton and Selvig, they're kinda afraid of magic. But they actually get that you need magic to explain them magic - I'm not saying it's possible - so they agreed with Thor's wishes. That your magic was to be allowed in tact. What was done to you before that is not my responsibility!" 

"If they have the means, people destroy that which they are afraid of," he said.

"I won't let them," Natasha swore, a dangerously dark expression of determination on her face. "I swore to Thor on the lives of the few I hold dear in this world that I'd do anything in my power to keep you safe." 

"For what purpose? So that SHIELD can use me as their lab rat whenever they please?" he said, voice growing hostile. He didn't doubt that his foolish brother would want to keep him safe, would want to forgive him. But he also knew that Thor couldn't afford to lose SHIELD's trust. He was their link to Asgard. Something didn't match up, but Loki couldn't quite figure out _what_. 

"Lab rats usually get hurt," she spat. "I'm your protective detail, not your chewing toy. Believe it or not, you have a say in the matter as long as your words have credit."

Loki couldn't help but smile sarcastically. "Of course I don't," he said.

"Make a request you'd comply with if you were in SHIELD's place," she said, containing the frustration he was causing her to fluster with. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve calls Natasha to inform her of Clint's condition. Subsequently, she makes a bad decision in the hopes for distraction.

A FORTNIGHT LATER

Steve exited the meeting. It had felt so wrong to have a meeting about one of their team members—especially when that team member didn't know about it. But it was for his own good; or so Fury claimed. Clint hadn't been himself lately, understandably. Although none of them knew—or maybe Stark did, Steve couldn't tell—what Natasha was up to, she deserved to know. Fury had been against it, claiming that it would influence her mission. But Steve knew what it was like not to be told, and so did Stark. In the end, they had agreed that Steve would tell her, figuring that she might be more willing to listen to him than to Stark. He would have preferred to talk to her in person, but seeing as he didn't know where to find her, he would have to talk to her on the phone.   
When he arrived on his floor, he found the phone Stark had enforced upon him once he had moved into the Tower. It didn't take him long to dial Natasha, and he trained his eyes on the screen as it rang, as if afraid that he'd miss it when she picked up if he looked away. 

Natasha was dripping with water when the sound broke through the door, muffled. It took her a couple of seconds (ten, actually) for her to realize that she'd prohibited Loki from answering her phone, so she quickly grabbed the nearest towel and secured it around her chest, happy that it covered what needed to be covered. She eyed the fixed shower before allowing her roommate to take his turn. She had just exited the shower and was toweled when she grabbed the phone, surprised at seeing Rogers' number on the screen. "Agent Romanov," she answered. 

Steve was equally relieved and anxious when she answered the phone, and it occurred to him that he had no idea how to phrase what he wanted to tell her, and for some reason, his brain switched to random nonsense. "Romanov. Hi. We've all been wondering where you are. How are you?"   
He regretted that he'd said it the moment he had—not because he wasn't interested in her well being, and not because they hadn't been wondering, but because she was probably busy and didn't need to be interrupted by unimportant matters. What was important was that he got on to telling her about Clint. But how exactly do you tell someone that kinda thing?   
"Barton... he started recovering. Which is good. But..." he said, his voice failing him when he tried to get to the point. It shouldn't be this _damn hard_. 

She picked up on that nervous key to his voice and accidentally sent him a look that would have grilled suspects when she heard Clint's name mentioned. It was a glare too intense for whatever she and Rogers were, so she tried dialing it down, but ultimately knew that she was willing to frighten and alienate the good Captain for news on Barton's condition. She was stuck with Loki – stuck was such an odd phrase, because she had actually found herself _enjoying_ it in few moments, like when she introduced his Grand Lord Grumpiness to the Star Wars movies – and Barton had been left (like he had on so many other occasions in the past, but this felt different) alone to recover.   
She mustered as much threat and nerve into the syllables as possible. " _But—what—Captain_?" She had been excluded from any Avenger-related activities and felt like a caged mouse.

Steve cringed slightly at the tone in her voice, took a deep breath and began pacing the room. "He... his legs are paralyzed," he blurted out, glad that he got it said. But now he felt like he owed her an explanation. Damn. "He has barely talked to us since you left. He doesn't really sleep. He... well, he decided that he wanted to recover as fast as possible, so he strained his muscles too much. And something happened, Stark lost me on the Latin terms and things when he tried to explain it, and he lost feeling in his legs a couple days ago. Well, not completely, all he's doing now is telling us that it hurts, when he surfaces, that is. He stays in his quarters most of the time, only goes to the kitchen during the night if what Stark says is true."   
He paused for a moment. "He's been confined to a wheelchair. And I don't know if he's embarrassed or sad or what he is, but he's not... him." Another pause. He wanted to tell Natasha that he wasn't him because she wasn't there, because he had seen the look in his eyes whenever she was mentioned, and he knew how such things felt. But he decided not to. "It's like he's not here anymore. And SHIELD has suspended him from service for an unknown period of time," he said. That was one of the things Fury had told them on the meeting today.

Natasha dropped the glass of water she had been sipping and heard it shatter into a thousand pieces on the floor as Steve's words sunk in. _No_ , a voice very much like her own echoed. It seemed like decades passed before she swallowed and regained the ability to speak. Paralysis, a fate worse than death to someone like Clint; to someone like them. She hadn't heard all of Rogers' message, lost at the point where _paralyzedparalyzedparalyzed_ entered the conversation. She wanted to scream, _why are you telling me this!_ and lash out at Rogers who had dared break her fragile vision that Clint would be okay.   
Clint always flapped back, recovering with scars to remind him of his mistakes. To lose what defined him... The thought was unbearable, and yet she could only be selfish. She couldn't imagine never having him as backup, his witty and inappropriate jokes in her ear to make her smile during a tedious op or to spar with him after-hours, impressing even the firmest of rookies. _Never again_. She clutched and broke the... what had it been? Did it matter? Nothing mattered. She understood Clint's withdrawing tendencies. They were the balance of a spear: her the sharpness, he the balance required for a proper thrust. But...   
"Paralyzed?" she repeated, her voice hoarse like a child trying to hold back sobs. 

Steve nodded slowly. "They say he might regain feeling, but... it's unlikely." He looked at her for a moment, finding himself at a loss of words. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her it was gonna be okay, but he couldn't, mainly because he didn't really believe it himself. Now that he'd explained it to her, it was as though it wasn't real, because something like this _couldn't have happened_.  
"When will you be back?" he asked, trying to sound as neutral as possible, but the plea in his voice couldn't be hidden completely. Clint needed her. They all needed her. They were a team, and they were supposed to support each other. And Steve hated that he couldn't do anything to help either of them.

It killed her. He—they—was, were so close, but she couldn't. "I d-don't know," she admitted, vulnerability probably showing on her face.   
You needed legs as an archer to compensate balance, and without his bow, Clint was _nothing_. At least, that was how he'd see it. Clint was everything to her, the reason she was who she was. A month ago, she had been hesitant of pursuing a relationship with him and now it seemed implausible. She could hear it in her own voice, raw, vulnerable… _I don't know if I will be back_. Were they a team without Clint? They had been during the New York incident, but she couldn't visualize going into the field without him, without his hawk-eye resting on their backs, fingers ready to nock an arrow into approaching enemies.   
It still seemed surreal. She was dealing with _fucking_ magic and her partner had gotten himself _paralyzed_. There was nobody to perform revenge on, and would SHIELD trust her now? She had vowed to serve them as long as Clint remained alive, but 'suspended from service for an unknown period of time' was awfully close to a death sentence. Never before had she been so helpless—the Black Widow had never been, but Natasha had felt—not even when the hospital patients had perished in the flames of her massacre. 

Steve had never seen her like this before. She usually kept her walls in place, allowing no display of emotion whatsoever. He nodded again, scolding himself mentally for being so bad at this. Why couldn't he just say _one_ comforting word, just something— _anything_ —that would make all of this better? Something else bugged him—she usually knew when her missions ended, and it usually didn't take this long.   
"Okay..." he said, not as much disappointed as worried. "Just… if you need to talk, then…" It was cheesy and odd and kind of wrong to say this, mostly because he was talking to Natasha Romanov, but he felt like he needed to say it. Hell, he didn't know what else to say. "I hope we'll see you soon," he finally settled on. He didn't want to leave her like this, but he knew that she wouldn't tell him much, if anything, so he decided not to try and make her. 

"Yeah..." she said, pretty sure she was still in shock. Hopefully, this was some terrible dream she'd wake up from, but she knew better. Shouldn't she have seen this coming? If she cared, people fucking _died_. Her name wasn't the Black Widow for nothing. She wasn't sure who she was angry at the most—herself, Clint, Fury, or the goddamn world in general. This couldn't be real, but the irony of the all was that she was babysitting a god and had no options to visit a friend, nevertheless the eloquence to make it all better. She was an illusionist, but Clint usually saw through her tricks, how would she ever be able to convince him that it'd be fucking okay? She hadn't even registered the pain and cuts from the shattered glass, how was she expected to come home to the Avengers and make everything fucking okay? 

"Okay," Steve said. He knew she wasn't okay, but there wasn't much he could do to make it okay. After a moment’s hesitation, he added: "Look, it won't get better by keeping everything to yourself. And I know you're not one for talking about... things. Call if you have anything to say. I'll listen."   
He paused for a couple seconds. He'd already said that, kind of, but he was trying to postpone the moment when he had to hang up and leave her to herself. "Goodbye, Natasha," he said, waiting for her to say goodbye as well, but half expecting her not to. He used her first name deliberately in an attempt to catch her attention; she seemed like she wasn't quite present.

Natasha.... Clint had been the first one allowed to use that name. It only amplified the pain she was feeling. It fueled the fire within. And perhaps that was why she screwed every instinct telling her to shut the fuck up. "Listen?" she repeated in disbelief.   
"You're not the one holed up with an ex-god. You're not the one who's been specifically told to stay away from Barton at all cost. You're the one who's been allowed to be there for Barton," she spat, raging. 

"He won't allow me to be there for him. Or any of the others. He shuts down whenever we try," Steve said frustratedly. It wasn't because of her as much as it was because of the truth of his words—they had all tried to approach Clint, but he just didn't want to talk to anybody—and because he _wanted_ to be there for him, but couldn't. He didn't want to be comforted.   
"Ex-god?" he inquired when his brain had processed what she'd said. He could only think of one ex-god, but he couldn't have come back from Asgard, could he? 

Her voice was ridiculously fragile. "Who do you think take precedence over my partner in SHIELD's opinions? Oh, and tell Thor he owes me. Do you honestly think Clint won't do the same to me?”  
“I _know_ it's not gonna be okay. You know why? Because I'll be the fucking example of why." She lost it, right there, tears starting to sting in her eyes. She was poison to Clint, had always been. He had gotten paralyzed saving her, gotten paralyzed rushing to be her partner. 

Steve opened and closed his mouth a couple times like a stranded fish, trying to come up with something to say. Damn, he wasn't good at this. Especially when tears welled up in her eyes. He looked away from the screen, trying to will his brain to supply him with words. His thoughts were racing. Loki, Natasha, Clint... The pieces started falling into place. If she had been sent on a mission for an undefined amount of time, and Loki was back… It started to make sense.   
"Loki's back," he said, half questioning and half definitively. He had intended to say something that would make it okay, but it was hard when things weren't gonna be okay. 

Natasha’s hands started shaking, blood running down her wrist. She absentmindedly listened to his conclusion, shutting her eyelids over her eyes in a feeble attempt to banish the tears. 

\- 

Loki turned off the water, pleased that he hadn't broken anything this time, and grabbed a towel. He stopped mid-movement when he registered voices from outside the bathroom. There shouldn't be anybody there with Natasha and him. As he reached for the towel again, he remembered that the phone had rung before he went to shower. He also remembered the sound of shattering glass, albeit faintly, as he had heard it through the rush of the water.   
He stood listening for a moment, drying his hair as quietly as possible. He heard his own name being mentioned. In a rush, he wrapped the towel around his waist, suddenly curious as to whom Natasha was talking to. He opened the door, and almost shut it again when he saw her. What the _hell_ had he missed? 

Hair damp, tear ducts messing up every ounce of control, Natasha regained her voice. It was thick and hoarse with emotion and she tried—and failed miserably—to gain back her vocal prowess. She had been wrong in her words to Barton. _This is monsters and magic and nothing we were ever trained for_. It was bitterly true, but had excluded the possibility of getting hurt beyond recovery but still living. This wasn't fair! Clint was his archery. He cared more for that bow than anything. Saving lives, dodging bullets, aiming the bow—was him. He breathed the life SHIELD was, the assignments SHIELD provided. Sure, there were times like London when it wasn't superb, but he did it gracefully. A wheelchair wasn't... fair.   
However, she realized that she'd said too much. "Rogers… _Steve_... Don't tell anyone. My protective detail is classified. I've been deployed from the Avengers indefinitely. Give Clint my… regards. And my consideration." _And my love_ , a voice in her head said and she had to bite her lip to keep the words from being uttered. 

Steve quit pacing when she hung up, her last words echoing, and stared blankly at the screen for a minute's time. "You have my word," he told the now empty screen. He put the phone down on his bedstand and put his hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the sky outside the window. He wouldn't tell anyone, that much was true—but what he didn't think about in that moment was Jarvis and the surveillance cameras. 

\- 

Loki stared at her in disbelief for a moment, taking in the sight of her—bleeding, eyes swollen as though she was on the brink of crying. Or maybe she already had. He took a deep breath, doing his best not to startle her when he asked: "What... happened?" 

Natasha didn't register his words, but her dulled senses did pick up on his presence. She didn't even attempt to gather herself. Frankly, she wouldn't have cared if Loki chose that moment to use his vast skills of deceit to manipulate her. It was as if she was under a dome of glass or a bell jar.  
She started to feel pricks as the glass cut into the flesh of her toes, the one in her palm not getting better as she dug her nails into it, sensation having escaped her. She tried to rise from her casual seat in the chair in front of the laptop, but her wobbly legs failed her and she fell to the ground, reflexes kicking in to brace for the fall, the white towel loosening. 

Loki didn't react as she fell—didn’t know how. It all seemed so surrealistic. In the past couple weeks, he had never seen her lose it like this. It took a couple seconds for him to conclude that he couldn't just stand there. A fleeting thought of harming her rushed through his head, but he decided against it, although he wasn't quite sure why. Instead, he knelt by her side, hesitating for a moment. It was as though he wasn't the master of his own movements--his body acted on its own accord. He put a hand on her shoulder, contemplating whether he should try and help her to her feet or not.

Her senses flew into alert at his touch, but aside from tensing, she didn't shy away. This was _Loki_. It should matter that it was he who touched her and she should have analyzed the way but she couldn't. She coped with deaths like she coped with living—physically. She tried to rebuild the walls that had flooded emotion on her face, but couldn't. Damn, now where she returned, the pain became clear. Shards had dug into her feet and she winced as she sent them a glance, opening the palm where a shard had embedded itself.   
She met Loki's eyes, wanting something to react to. How could she feel so hollow and emotional at the same time? It was impossible. It was weak and illogical and irrational. 

"Get up," he said as their eyes met, tugging gently at her arm. He tried to sound determined, or something akin to that, but couldn't quite hide the uneasiness. This was wrong. This was _very wrong_. She shouldn't be like this. For whatever reason, Natasha obeyed the gentle order. Her legs, still wobbly, made it so she had to lean a bit unto him as they rose to stand. It hurt her feet, which made her hiss.   
"Could you..." She barely recognized her own voice. "... grab the medical kit? It's a red box in the toilet cabinet. Should hold..." Why couldn't she get her thoughts organized? She couldn't remember the words, but the pain wasn't that bad. "... gauze and disinfectants..."

Loki looked at the couch across the tiny room, taking half a step towards it and trying to urge her to follow. He wasn't sure if she could stand by herself, and he decided that it would be better for her to not sit in the middle of the shattered glass.   
"Sit down," he said, nodding towards the couch, "I'll get the kit." It was as though his common sense was fighting his instincts, giving him no control of what he was doing. His common sense told him to help her, while his instincts told him to hurt her while he had the chance.

The pain decreased to some degree when the weight was off the soles of her feet and Natasha took the time to battle the shock numbing her instincts and training—and composure. Steve had phoned her because Fury had basically fired Clint. He had done so—justifiably--because Clint had suffered paraplegia as the result of straining his muscles too much too soon. Dammit, what had she told him? To take his fucking time, but he'd rushed things because she hadn't been there to slow him down.   
The rational part of her knew it wasn't her fault. It was bred to the bone that she wasn't to take responsibility for the actions that dominoed from her tricks. Red Room had taught her that. Action and reaction. By the time Loki returned, his behavior suspiciously benign, she had her head in her hands, clutching the loose towel to her chest, trying to wipe the tears from her face.

Loki putted the medical kit beside her, not quite sure if he should offer to help her. Part of him didn't want to, part of him did. Instead, he walked quickly to the other room, pulling on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. As he reentered the room, he hesitated by the closet, but eventually, he opened it and pulled out her bigshirt. He dropped it on the couch on top of the medical kit and turned around, mentally scolding himself, because _by the nine, what was he doing!_

Natasha used the tongs to pry the shards out, trying to keep the wincing to a minimum, pausing to appreciate the fairly limited amount of pain and to take the bigshirt and pull it on. "Thanks."   
It was large enough to reach her mid-thigh, and so she allowed the towel to drop as she resumed the painful task of getting the fucking glass out of her feet only to move unto the glass in her hand. Dammit, she could see bone. Figuring he was waiting for some kind of explanation, she started talking. "I shouldn't have done that." 

"I don't assume you did it on purpose," he said, turning to face her again and crossing his arms over his chest in lack of knowing what to do with them. As he watched her removing the glass shards, a multitude of ways it could be done more efficiently ran through his head without his consent, a habit he had adopted long ago. He fixed his eyes on the bloodstained towel on the floor. Right now, the only familiar thing was the red color—everything else seemed distant and foreign.

"Reflex," she said in one wince. "I wasn't paying attention. Broke the glass." _because_... "I got some bad news from a friend."   
The blood started flowing from the wound in her palm as she removed the last shard and added it to the pile of pieces she had already removed. She grabbed some of the towel and pressed it against the wound, caring little about the pain, and watched as it turned crimson. 

Loki searched his brain for something that could be so bad that it would do this to her. The only explanation he could come up with was that it had something to do with her precious archer. It would be so easy to take advantage of the situation. She was vulnerable. He could hurt her—if not physically, then mentally. Why he didn't do so was a mystery to him. Why he didn't even mention the bloody archer was a mystery to him. Why he sat down next to her was a mystery to him. 

Natasha was actually glad when he didn't speak. It made it as if the phone call hadn't happened; as if she wasn't about to face countless missions without Clint once this assignment was over. The perplexed look on his face was endearing. She would have chuckled if it hadn't all been so damn ironic.   
Actually, as she began returning to her basic training, she noticed how close they were. They had been close—the apartment was that small—but always managed to be in the opposite end of the rooms if they hadn't provoked each other. _Survival_. She wouldn't be able to tell him—he wouldn't understand—yet he managed to read her well enough to know that her emotions were running high. His silver tongue hadn't done any mischief. In fact, he had been pretty broody.   
And so she managed to lean in closer, eyes turned upwards to study his reaction. She needed a distraction. 

Loki froze as she leaned closer, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. Suddenly, he felt like he was being held in place by an invisible force, as though something bad would happen if he moved as much as an inch. He knew very well what she was trying to do, and he had no clue how to react. What his brain told him was one thing— _get away, this is wrong, this is wrong_ , what his body told him was another— _it’s okay_. Confusion dominated his senses, and he remained where he was, barely breathing. 

Her voice had managed to regain some of that seductive huskiness she was so well-known for. "Thanks," she whispered and blamed emotional instability for what came next. She didn't care—except she did—that it was Loki, because anybody was a greater distraction than reality and he had played the part so perfectly last time.   
She couldn't deny having wanted him during the last three weeks. The kiss was testing, chaste almost, to check if he'd reject it out of too much hatred of her and her kind. He was a god, ex or not, he was far superior to her, and she was human. She poured tenderness into that kiss with a held breath, asking permission because frankly, the idea of taking him was too tempting, and she wasn't exactly sure what SHIELD would do if she returned their godly prisoner broke from what she wanted to do to him in the most lustful of ways. And it should have rung the alarm bell in her head, but didn't because, well, screw SHIELD.

He didn't respond immediately, but he didn't withdraw either. He didn't do anything. He just sat there. Which was, in fact, kind of pathetic. Had it really been that long since anybody had touched him like this? Well, apparently so. Without thinking, he returned the kiss insecurely. 

Her body naturally took the next step, seduction lessons blocking thoughts. She let go of the towel and her hand went to lean against his stomach, unsurprised at finding fit abdominal muscles there. She allowed herself to explore and taste him, her tongue prying for entrance, submissively and dominantly so. She was so used to it being clear who was what that she was just insecurely going ahead. Her other hand rang through his damp hair, breathing in the scent of him. She had lost the self-control at this point and within seconds, she'd be in his lap. Within seconds, she'd _want_ to be in his lap. Want was an empowering emotion. 

One of his hands ran up her arm, settling on her shoulder. The other one found its way to her neck as the kiss grew more genuine and less chaste—far less chaste. He had lost all hopes of controlling himself, simply going with what his body told him was right.

If this was how all Asgardians kissed, Natasha understood Jane Foster on a whole new level. She wasn't attracted to Thor like she was attracted to Loki. Thor was simply too... good. Firmly, she pushed him back unto the couch, soon joining him as one hand skillfully started to move his hem upwards. She wanted to see him, wanted to touch him and mark him, wanted _him_. 

Loki putted his hands on her shoulders and pushed her far enough back to break the kiss, looking at her with an empty expression. "I... I can't..." he said.

_Does he have someone in Asgard?_ she wondered. Men had refused her before; she wasn't embarrassed. Her swollen lips rivaled the confusion on her face. Had the Asgardians' treatment of him rendered him impotent? She had felt his body respond to hers. She battled her own personal desire and whispered:   
"Can't want, or can't have?" She allowed one finger to trail down the middle of her neck, down between her breasts over the thin fabric of the bigshirt. She was pretty sure she battered eyelashes at him, too. She was very aware that she was naked under the shirt, naked practically straddling him. 

She smiled darkly against his lips as they continued. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha visits Clint

Natasha signed in with her keycard but managed to sneak up to the specific level without incident or particularly, Stark's probing. She had left Loki with a SHIELD agent in the basement levels. She had tapped the bracelet as warning before riding upstairs. She was a good enough spy to realize that by now, Clint would have retreated to his private quarters. It felt strange to be back after three weeks. She'd gotten used to Loki and the small apartment. She managed to enter the archer's quarters unnoticed, noticing the darkness and absence of electrical light.

Clint put the whiskey bottle in his lap and wheeled out of the kitchen towards the elevator. Sometimes, it was convenient that Tony never put them back. Once in the elevator, he pushed the button to his floor. He sat staring at the door when the little ping told him that he'd reached his destination, and didn't head out of the elevator until several seconds after it had opened. 

Natasha awaited in silence, her silhouette absorbed by the darkness and waited. She wasn't sure why she was here—no, that was certain—but what she was supposed to say. She hadn't been there for him and that was thoroughly her fault. She watched as the elevator announced its arrival from the hallway, adopting the persona of the spy she had been for all these years to see the variables.

Clint: wheeled down the hallway, but stopped when he spotted a silhouette a bit ahead. After a moment’s consideration, he put a hand on the gun beside his thigh, ready to take it with a fraction of a second's notice.   
"Who's there?" he said exhaustedly. He didn't care much if it was friend or foe—they were pretty much the same by now. 

Her heart broke at the way his voice sounded. _Clint, when did you get so dented?_ Instead of replying, she stepped out of the shadows into full view, denim shorts, striped blouse and all. Seeing him staring at her, all tense, it was wrong. The wheelchair—he wasn't relaxing, and how could he? His life had been taken away and drastically altered. None of this showed on her face. Instead, she chose to show relief at seeing him, flesh and all. Aside from some truly vivid dreams, this was the first time she'd seen him in almost a month.

"Tasha," he said, equally surprised and happy. God, had he missed her. He couldn't help but feel pathetic, though, sitting in his wheelchair. Absentmindedly, he moved his hand from the gun to cover the whiskey bottle. 

He should have known better than to try to hide the bottle. Apparently, he had adopted some bad habits of Stark's as well in her absence. Natasha couldn't blame him, never blame Clint, especially not after what had happened between her and Loki. What was she supposed to say? _You upset me?_ It wasn't quite adequate. Kneeling down would patronize his situation. Remaining standing would insult his new situation.   
"A gun, Clint?" she asked in disbelief; not disapproving, merely surprised. "I understand the booze, but a gun? You never liked guns." 

He sighed and looked down at the gun. "Well... the bow and the chair didn't quite get along," he said.  
He'd tried. He'd tried shooting from the wheelchair, but it felt bloody wrong. He couldn't aim right and lacked mobility. Really, he knew that he just needed to practice a bit, he'd probably master it fairly quickly, but... it was just wrong. He wouldn't be able to fight with it, so what was the point? 

Natasha nodded. She walked to the couch and threw herself in it, sprawling. "It's nice being home. Good. How's it been?"   
Denial, river in Egypt. If he wanted to talk about it, she could berate him all he wanted. For now, the fact that she was with him was enough. She winced as she moved, still sore from last night's escapades. It was instant guilt on her face, and she hoped shadows obscured it. 

"I know Steve told you about how things have been," he said, ignoring the brief look of guilt on her face. At least he thought that was what it was. He was tired, and he just wanted to get drunk. Again. 

A dark look entered her face. "He covered the basics. Like how you've been refusing to talk to anybody and how you've been clearing out in Stark's liquor cabinet on your own. Care to share?" she said, gesturing for the bottle. 

Clint unscrewed the cap and took a large gulp, caring little for the burning sensation it sent down his throat, before handing it to her.   
"He can't drink all of it himself anyway," he said, staring blankly into the half-darkness. Truth was, that he had tried hard to drink his problems away. That what Stark did, that's what they did on movies, so why shouldn't it work for him as well? Turns out it hadn't been as pleasant as he'd imagined, though. But it didn't bring him enough pain yet to make him stop. 

"You haven't seen what happens when he tries," she said, recalling the intoxicated, dying Tony she'd encountered as Natalie Rushman. She took a swig of the bottle, enjoying the burning sensation it brought her. It was warm and familiar and nothing she'd have pegged Clint for.   
"Drunk enough to start talking or you need more?" She stared at him, sliding down from the couch unto the floor in one calm motion. "You should be grateful that Stark's agreed to house you. Doesn't he realize what he's in for?" 

"What do you want to know?" he asked, reaching for the bottle. He knew that she would most likely demand quite an explanation. Damn, he needed more whiskey for that to work out. 

"Why I had to sit through a stuttering Steve explaining why you're turning into a complete asshole would be a start," she said, downing another gulp before handing him the bottle.   
"I shouldn't be drinking," she muttered, but waited for his reply, for some excuse why he didn't call although she knew why. Men and their goddamn pride. She'd had enough of it for the past three weeks with Lord Grumpiness of Frelling Asgard. She wanted to hear what he had to say about it. She wanted him to tell her what she was supposed to do and say. 

Clint grabbed the bottle and took another swig of it, remaining silent. "Good, then I'll keep this one," he said, looking briefly at the bottle. "I thought you'd been on a mission. They told me I couldn't call you. How could Steve?" he said, downing another gulp of the liquor. 

"I was. Protective detail. SHIELD wasn't planning to inform me. Luckily, Rogers had the decency to call. I actually think it was Stark's idea. Maybe he felt a little bad after—."   
She halted, figuring that bringing up the infirmary make-out session shouldn't be brought up now. "Anyway, I don't know how. Dialing my number like a normal person?" 

Clint looked at her for a moment, feeling utterly dumb for not defying SHIELD. They'd practically fired him anyway, so how much of a difference did it make? He was glad that Steve had called her, though, mostly so that he didn't have to tell her everything himself. It was cowardice, but he feared what would have happened if he had told her himself. "But you're back now, right?" he said, almost pleadingly.

Natasha glanced downwards, willing herself not to stare at the bracelet. "SHIELD doesn't want me affiliating with the Avengers until they have made their final decision." _Which is to be decided by how well I do playing house with Loki, our friendly neighborhood God of Mischief._ She kept that to herself. 

"Don't tell me this is all because of what you did to Fury," he said, drinking a bit more of the whiskey. 

"I suspect not," she said, grabbing for the bottle with a reproachful stare. "Fury wants to keep me. The Council is uncertain. My status is pending. Part of the clause is vague with what happens if my partner is not my partner." 

Clint looked down in a mix of shame and regret, shaking his head slowly. He had been stupid, he knew that. But he also believed, somehow, that sometime, things would be normal again. Or, as close to normal as things could ever be. He was stronger than this. He had to be. He had gotten himself into this mess, and he'd get himself out again. He couldn't bear losing her to something as trivial as _this_. He always thought that if they'd part, it'd be because of something more... dramatic was the wrong word. Meaningful, maybe. Something better than him getting himself fucking injured, at least. 

For a moment, Natasha contemplated telling him to replace that shame on his face with something she knew how to handle. Loki was always a touchy subject, but she wasn't sure if Clint would be able to handle the idea of Loki touching her. Speaking of which, she felt the bracelet grow icy and had to roll her eyes at Loki's attempts to flaunt his powers in front of the escort. It glowed slightly which showed like a glowstick in the darkness. "I've missed you, Clint." 

"I've missed you too," he said, hesitating for a moment before reaching for the bottle again.

Natasha kept it firmly in her hand, not extending it for him to grab. "If you want it, you have to get over here," she said, words slightly slurred. She eyed him mischievously.

"Now you're just mean," he said, leaning back and crossing his arms stubbornly. 

She pouted at him. It had nothing to do with the insane amount of alcohol ingested before coming here to help her even show up. Loki had found her subsequent driving very hazardous and uttered what she believed to have been Old Norse profanities the entire ride. Nobody had _died_. She teasingly held the bottle in front of her face. "Absence makes me meaner. Now get over here and show me how much you missed me," she added. 

"Maybe you shouldn't leave me if absence makes you mean," he said, voice sharper than he'd first intended. As the alcohol started taking effect, he slowly but surely lost control. It wasn't as bad yet, but he remembered how it'd been some of the other nights. He hadn't even dared go to the common room in fear of what he would say or do. 

Natasha raised a surprised eyebrow at his sudden anger. There were so many things being said without being said. Truth was, if he asked right now for her to stay, she'd probably be able to quit SHIELD the very moment and run off into the sunset. But that was just it: she was bred to be an assassin and had no idea who she was without it, and he was a paraplegic ex-archer with a substance abuse. She could too well see what'd happen if she wasn't allowed to seduce anybody. It was second nature to her, and it would be infidelity and jealousy that'd split them again. Without SHIELD... The thought was nice, but the truth was that SHIELD hid their problems and insecurities—or had done, in Clint's case. "Don't, Clint…" 

"Whenever something doesn't fit your agenda, you just leave. In London? You didn't, what was it, _want me to listen_ , and then you just went by yourself. After the crash, when I was hospitalized, you just left. I woke up, and you weren't there. You weren't anywhere," he said, voice starting to slur. "You're afraid of the truth. You hide, and you run," he added, fighting to keep his voice steady. 

She sat there, stunned and somehow feeling rejected by his words of hard truth. What could she tell him? That the aliases and need to run had become part of her? She worked hard to keep 'Natasha' from the personalities of her aliases, but had somehow failed. SHIELD had chosen to allow her to be a seductress and an assassin. She felt like she'd been slapped and the bottle fell from her grasp and rolled over the carpet with a soft thud. He was right. She'd done what all her training and aliases would have done when faced with vulnerability and the presence of a handsome man of power. She'd slept around. Which wasn't exactly true because she wasn't in a relationship with Clint so why'd she have to feel so guilty all the fucking time? The thing was, most of assignments were physical and sexual in nature. While their conversations often turned into innuendos and sexual tension, her partnership was first and foremost of intellectual and personal nature. And now it wasn't even that anymore. 

"If your missions are so fucking important to you, then I don't understand why you came back," he said. "SHIELD hardly authorized it."   
He looked at her with a hard expression, doing all he could to hold back the tears that threatened to break through. How _pathetic_ could he be? It was hard to mask his feelings with the alcohol rushing through him, though. 

What was this wet sensation that made her eyes sting? "Because I fucking care, Barton. You may not, but I do! Do you think I enjoy playing house with someone so manipulative while all I want to do is be with you?"   
Her voice broke on the last syllable and she looked away. She was messing up. She allowed him and his alcohol-induced anger to affect her speech about calming down.

"Then stay. If you care that much, stay," he said blankly. 

Natasha reached to caress his jaw, kneeling so she was leaning against the chair, elbows in his lap. "I'd like that," she admitted softly, but was cut off by the radio chatter.

" _Agent Romanov?—prisoner is expressing desire to, uh, leave._ "

She kept her eyes locked unto Clint's for a bit longer, knowing Loki's discontentment wouldn't evaporate on its own. Still keeping eye contact, she spoke into her earpiece, knowing it had been loud enough for Clint to hear. "Don't call him that. And for god's sake, Reynolds, don't hit him." 

"What prisoner?" Clint asked, suspicion managing to break through the haze of the alcohol dulling his senses. 

" _Romanov, the pris—ouch, don't do that, you little Asgardian—ouch...! Romanov, come pick up your dog or I'll shoot him, I swear_ ,” the agent said. 

Natasha rolled her eyes and got up. "You do that, Fury'll test all those grenade launchers on you personally. Not to mention Thor's reaction, Reynolds, do you really wish to piss off a God? Last but not least, me. You harm that slick megalomaniac, I hurt due to this godforsaken act of karmic bracelet, so don't you—ouch!" she spat when she felt the punch Reynolds had hit Loki with. Magic went through the bracelet as Loki's anger flared. Green magic. 

Clint's alcohol-numbed brain put together the pieces for him, and he blurted out "Loki. What the _hell_ is Loki doing here? Is he... is he your mission?" 

Natasha nodded affirmative, however reluctant. " _Yes_. Although I'm beginning to feel like someone babysitting a toddler. No, actually, it's worse. He's a fucking baby."   
She addressed the agent handling the God. "Reynolds, Imma have to tell you to stop because you have obviously not understood the meaning of a linking spell. I feel what he feels, he feels what he's causing. Don't provoke him, he's intolerable to cohabitate with as it is." She waited for a reply. 

" _Are you sure? He's saying some interesting things about you..."_

Clint listened intently, trying to make out the words. His intoxicated state made it a bit hard, but he succeeded in the end. "I'm not the only one who has been keeping secrets, am I?" "You're drunk, Clint." It was true and was neither denial nor confirmation of his claim. Reynolds shut up on his end. There was only so much damage Loki could do. 

"So are you," he said, crossing his arms. "Shouldn't you get back to your _prisoner_ , agent Romanov?" he said coolly. Deep down, he knew he was being a jerk and unfair and jerk and goddammit, he was a _jerk_. But he couldn't restrict himself—he had lost self-control completely and utterly. 

Natasha physically stepped back as if slapped by his words. She deserved it, but she didn't want to return to playing house with Loki. 

Clint wheeled a bit to the side, reaching down and picking up the bottle from the floor. "I have company," he said as he took a large gulp of the whiskey, appreciating the distraction that the burning sensation caused. 

"Don't do this to me, Clint," she whispered softly. "Don't do this to yourself." She felt so on the spot that it made her uncomfortable and her arms secured themselves around her breasts as she hugged herself. "Would you honestly have told me if you had been assigned the case?"   
Realizing what she'd said, she laughed bitterly. "Of course you would've. Why am I even asking that. I came here to check on the man I care for as the person who's always had my back—and I'm not talking about missions. Let me know when he decides to show behind this stupor." She sent him a look and started to walk towards the elevator in a slow pace. 

Clint looked at the bottle pointedly, frozen momentarily. The sound of the closing elevator doors woke him from his trance, and he threw the bottle at the wall with all the force he could muster. "Damn you," he said, burying his face in his hands. 

Natasha flinched as she heard the sound of glass shattering against the walls of the elevator, astounded by his violent response. Of course he wouldn't hurt her, he wouldn't have thrown the bottle if the doors hadn't been closed, would he? Even if he had, she would most likely have been able to catch it or dodge. She hoped he would have calmed down by the time he noticed the present she'd left.   
She leaned against the wall of the elevator, addressing the omnipresent AI that Stark had allowed residence in the Tower. It wasn't intrusive unless instructed to, and 'it' was such a bad description. Jarvis was the polite to Stark's blunt arrogance. "Jarvis, are all levels accessible to Barton since his paralysis?"   
A secret part of her hoped that Clint would follow her, too angry to let her leave, and the same part hoped to hear the voice of someone who'd been with Clint for the past three weeks. Anybody on her old team, really. 

"No, agent Romanov. The only levels currently accessible to agent Barton are his private floor and the common floor, except if he is under supervision," Jarvis replied. 

No wonder he felt caged. He had always sought rooftops at least twice daily before. "Supervision?"   
She couldn't imagine him being suicidal, but she understood the others' misinterpretation of his behavior. They didn't know him like she did. Hell, she didn't know the man in that room. 

"Agent Barton is to be accompanied by an agent of SHIELD who has been approved by Director Fury if he is to visit any other level than those which he is allowed access to." 

”Am I on that list?” she inquired. She rolled her eyes in frustration of how badly Fury knew Clint but supposed he wasn't supposed to know, or maybe he did know and didn't care, or maybe he'd already figured that she'd solve the problem for him. That seemed to be his solutions lately. It had gotten to a point where she longed for simple assassination assignments.   
Natasha hit the button to take her back to Clint's floor, the floor they'd once shared (neither of them were particularly fond of vast spaces, having been forced into crammy apartments for too long), but she knew that to not happen soon. For good measure, she asked the AI to speed up the process. 

"It appears that you are not, agent Romanov." 

"We'll just have to make a point, then. Are you going to stop me, Jarvis?" she asked, hoping to confirm that the AI was enough of Tony's creation to contain an element of spontaneity and understanding of emotions and human relations. 

"I was instructed by Mr. Stark to refrain from restricting you when you entered the building." Although SHIELD had made it very clear that Jarvis was to enforce their safety protocols, Stark had been determined that it was _his_ AI, _his_ building and that since SHIELD could not override his systems, there was nothing they could do about it. 

For once, Natasha actually mentally appreciated Stark and his paranoia towards SHIELD. She doubted she had a future in their employment, but was concerned at what quitting would entail. She praised the gods when the elevator began to ascend.   
"Give him my gratitude. And uh, alert him to the situation on the basement level if it gets too out of hand. I'm sure he'll enjoy it. Do, however, inform him that any harm performed on Mr. Laufeyson will be personally performed upon Mr. Stark himself and considered his responsibility if he chooses to get involved." She was going to take Clint out. 

"Yes, agent Romanov." 

Natasha prepared herself for Clint's vocal protest, this time knowing what his presence would entail. He'd just have to fight her on this one, because they were going. She supposed she could make him go (well, be taken, wheeled, whatever) if only to spite Fury's "list". When the elevator pinged, she walked firmly into the darkness, willing herself not to be affected by the words and accusation caused by drunken stupor and recent events. She hoped seeing the city from above would bring back memories of the past and not focus on the finality of his entrapment. 

When the elevator doors slid open again, Clint looked at her with annoyance, crossing his arms over his chest. "I thought you had a prisoner to take care of," he said coolly. 

Without letting herself be baffled by his words, she grabbed a discarded sweatshirt, took three strides to him and threw it into his lap, grabbing the handles of the wheelchair (knowing how much he'd hate it, but also aware of how little he could actually do to prevent her—which was exactly why he hated it) and pushed him into the elevator, hitting the button to the balcony with enough force for it to muster a protest but nevertheless oblige to her demand. She fumed and let go of the handles, leaning against the corner furthest away from him, listening to what was surely to be drunken accusations.

Clint protested as she pushed him into the elevator, but not as much as he could have done, mainly because of the embarrassment and surprise when she did so. Once inside the elevator, he stared at the wall, hating how damn _pathetic_ he was.

When the doors glided open, Natasha hesitated before deciding that from here, he might be more cooperative than if she forced him. "Come," she requested softly, a trace of don't-question-me rolled in along with the softness.   
She exited the elevator on her own and headed directly through the deserted lounge to the glass doors and the balcony, closing her eyes in something similar to pleasure as she felt the wind blow against her face. She looked back at him, awaiting, and sat down, Indian style, almost serene. He could go back to his _cave_ but he'd know her true disapproval and she believed his curiosity just strong enough to follow her, if not out of knowledge of what she'd do to him if he didn't.

He wheeled out of the elevator and stopped before crossing his arms again, looking at her stubbornly. 

When she spoke, her voice was thick with her natural Russian accent, her native tongue. She felt utterly vulnerable when she did. " _What causes your hesitation, my beautiful boy? I do not want to fight_." 

His expression softened as she spoke, but he didn't wheel closer. He hadn't decided that he wanted to go here in the first place—why would he do her bidding? She hadn't taken him outside herself, that much was true, leaving him with a false sense of choice.   
"Is hitting a disabled man under your level after all?" he said, spitting out the word 'disabled' as though it tasted bad. He asked more of a way to try and force her to make the choice for him than anything else. He wanted her to leave. He hated that she should see him like this. Hell, he hated to see himself like this. 

Natasha’s facial expression hardened but she managed to keep her voice as it had always been. "I'm not above hitting my partner, but it's his choice. Remember Cyprus?" she asked, knowing he would.   
"Marketplace. It was the first time you managed to get close to me outside a job," she said, recalling how she'd been surprised that the archer had managed to track her beyond the world of espionage and mercenary. "I was surprised. You didn't have a sniper scope, no weapon aside from your bow. You just watched me. And I didn't run because I realized that maybe I liked having someone watching me—even an agent of SHIELD wielding an archaic weapon." 

"I'm not your partner anymore. SHIELD made sure of that," he said. Realization kicked in—it wasn't until now that he said it out loud that it appeared true. He had denied it for the past period of time, but it was as though it was sealed now. As though it hadn't been true until now. At least it hadn't seemed real until now. 

"You weren't my partner then," Natasha pointed out. "You weren't my partner for the first seven months of reprogramming and recruitment. You looked out for me, though."   
She breathed. "I don't need anybody to protect me on missions. It's not what I want." Tears glistened in her eyes and she looked away. "Selfishness is not part of my training. I do as I'm told. Lately, that hasn't been what I've wanted. I just don't know if I'm being choked or being released. We're a team, Clint, partners. SHIELD knows that. So I guess it comes to the question: would you still want me if I didn't work for SHIELD?"   
It was a simple question, complicated only by the knowledge they both had of her skillsets. She was a mercenary and if it wasn't for SHIELD, it was most likely somewhere less clean and most likely against SHIELD.

"Tasha... we don't have the privilege to choose for ourselves. Not even if we no longer work for SHIELD," he said after a moment of silence. Of course he wanted her—he’d always want her, no matter what. But when he was confined to this hideous contraption... it wasn't fair towards any of them. 

Natasha scoffed. "We fight for people's freedom to have our own taken from us. How is i >that justice?" she whispered, longing to touch that face. She gestured for him to join her. Her inner communist stirred. "C'mon. You always liked rooftops. Personally, I deem them risky. A beautiful boy taught me otherwise."   
She had seen people suffer worse fates from falls. She didn't want to leave him (ever) before convincing him that he had a future. A future _with_ her if he wanted. 

"Yeah. I used to like them. Now they just remind me of everything I used to have. My legs, for example. My bow," he said, bitterness gradually morphing into sadness. 

"And you believe staying inside is going to help you?" she asked softly, wanting to know the answer to what he was thinking. His frustration was evident in his torso language. "Have I ever told you about my father?" 

"At least inside doesn't require me to bring somebody," he said remorsefully. "And no, you haven't." 

"I guess 'father' is an inadequate description. He was the man who took care of me, tendered me, fed me, clothed me after my parents died. I don't remember them, but I do remember Ivan," she said, recalling the fond memories.   
"It was a different world, but Ivan took me places. Took me ice-skating, took me to my first ballet class. He wanted me to be happy. After Red Room, I managed to track him down. It took us a while to reconnect, but at a point, it felt like we were a family again. He encouraged me to take up ballet even though he knew about... Well, the Black Widow. He was a Russian soldier. And I loved him like a father. For a long while that was the only emotion I felt. Then he was injured. Grenade. It was… messy. I fled the facility to come to his bed. He was, God, I... don't know how to describe it. But yet, amidst his pain after getting two limbs amputated, he looked at me and had the audacity to inquire if I made it to the final cut of Swan Lake. I don't think I've ever been that mad." 

Clint looked at her for a long moment, taking in her words. He didn't have to give up, and he knew that. But when SHIELD was so adamant that he do just that, it was hard to keep his hopes up. And here he was, being an asshole towards the only person whom he really cared about—and who may still believe in him. "Did you make it?" 

Natasha noticed his point of focus and then smiled. "I did. Practiced to no avail. Ivan picked me up after every session, even far into the night. He insisted that he wouldn't pique. He wanted to see me on my opening night, he said." Her face grew dark as memory came to her.   
"Three days before opening night, I was sent to Siberia and detained for two months. I wasn't heartbroken, but I regretted not having been there to see the look on Ivan's face that night. I realized that I'd done it for him the entire time. So he'd have something to be proud of. He told me he hadn't gone to see it and even though I was out of practice, I danced for him. And he sat there, joints aching, through the entire thing. He had this look on his face, no pain, a little wonder... I think it was pride," she admitted. "It lit up the room and I asked him if I had to go get help or his morphine and he simply asked me for an encore." 

Clint wheeled closer to the balcony and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. Old habit, his brain told him, and a memory of sitting on the edge of his hospital bed ran through his mind. It seemed like so long ago. "I'm sorry about... the things I said."   
He shook his head slightly, trying to will himself to say something else. There was a lot he _wanted_ to say, but couldn't—how much he hated himself for getting them into this mess, because he very much considered it all his fault, how much he regretted not having listened to the doctors. How much he'd missed her, how empty and meaningless everything had been. How beautiful she looked tonight. 

Natasha wiped away rogue tears and cleared her throat. "On his deathbed, he told me that driving me to my ballet lessons when I wasn't off slitting the throats of enemies, despite the pain, was worth it. He told me that he'd have done it all again to see me for just a second shine through. He accepted my name and my occupation, but always told me that I'd make a beautiful ballerina. As if he was telling me that I'd have a shot at it in my future. Because he had hope. 'Even if you don't have faith, Natashenka, I have when I see you dance.' He lived to the age of 81, which I suspect just to spite the medics who'd sentenced him to a short lifespan. The point of this stupid story is that..."   
She paled and looked down in shame. "When I heard he'd had the amputations, I offered to be the angel of mercy and end what I believed to be a complete hopeless existence. I had the training, he'd been a soldier, it would have spared him so much pain. I didn't get why he declined because I was too proud to see how a man who'd relied so much on his physiology could outlive that gracefully. But he did and I was wrong. I didn't have faith in Ivan, Clint. Not like I have faith in you." 

Clint thought about it. She was right. He shouldn't let all this knock him out... he just didn't see how yet. But as long as there was at least one person who believed it to be possible, it could, in fleeting moments, seem so. He sighed.   
"Thank you," he said, almost a whisper—not just for having faith in him, but for telling him the story, for trying to convince him that his life hasn't ended yet, for coming to see him, for being there, for not leaving him despite his unacceptable behavior. 

"You're welcome," she whispered back, lacing it with as much emotion she could. She hadn't told SHIELD about Petrovitch, but she assumed they knew. With today's modern medicine and gods at their disposal, who was to say that Clint would be confined to a wheelchair forever? And even if he was, she'd still enjoy his company every ounce of it she always had. She leaned her head against his wheelchair. "Enough of memory lane. I'll lose all of my mystery," she joked, just thankful for the moment. 

Clint putted a hand on her hair and closed his eyes, relishing the moment. He hadn't seen her in far too long, and he wanted her to stay, but he knew she'd have to leave at some point. 

Jarvis' voice cut off his train of thought—"Mr. Stark would like to inform you that, and I quote, _the son of a bitch in the basement will have his vocal chords forcefully restricted if he is not removed from my goddamn building_. End of quote," it chimed.

Clint smiled slightly at Stark’s threat, but the thought of Natasha going back with Loki wiped it off. 

Natasha contemplated ignoring the message, but ultimately had to give in and open her eyes. She fumbled with the bracelet, for the first time actually trying to find a way to separate herself from it aside from cutting off her hand. " _Stupid magic_ ," she whispered below her breath.   
"Time to go," she said sadly, slowly rising from her sitting position. "Wanna ride down with me?" she asked and wanted a yes so bad, but was ready to accept a no. She'd understand a no. But she wanted him to be with her as far as time allowed. 

"Not all the way to the basement," he said, having no desire whatsoever to encounter Loki. He started towards the elevator, going at a slow pace. The longer he could drag it out, the better. 

She nodded, happy not to have received an outright refusal. "I'll take whatever I can get, Mr. Barton," she replied mischievously. She walked slowly towards the elevator next to him, her bones stiff from the wind and position.

"Even if it's Loki?" Clint inquired. His suspicion had arisen from her subtly stiff movements and occasional flick of guilt across her features, however brief they'd been. Part of him didn't want to ask out of fear for the answer, but a greater part of him wanted to have his suspicions either confirmed or struck down—preferably the latter. 

Natasha stiffened at the sudden albeit subtle accusation, having been caught by surprise. She'd been focusing on his guilt, his anger, and his depression that she'd almost forgotten how great he read her movements. All the soreness wasn't enough to overrule the sting of hurt. She couldn't tell him, not after everything, not after New York, not after _this_.   
He wouldn't understand— _what?_ That part of her longed for the darkness Loki brought? The brash, uncaring ways? That she'd found human insecurities and weaknesses in their enemy? Clint hadn't been there for her when she'd gotten the call from Steve and despite her wanting it, it hadn't been his hands that had tended her wounds. It was stupid and not at all how had supposed to happen. Her throat was dry and hoarse. He'd tell every lie that would pass her lips and she didn't want to taint what had just transpired with lies. "I made a mistake." 

Clint nodded numbly, well knowing that he shouldn't blame her. She wasn't his exclusively, and he couldn't deny her being with others. Who would want a crippled little archer when they could have something better? It was like swapping a broken toy for a new one. Yet, he fought to defeat the feeling of betrayal her confirmation had brought down on him. "Did you mistake it for another seduction mission?" 

She opened her mouth to speak but closed it again. "I am not justifying that with an answer. I've been cooped up with him for three weeks, Clint. I'm not allowed to hurt him. Christ, why'd you think I was mis—."   
Then it dawned on her. Really, _dawned_ on her. "You're jealous," she stated, still in disbelief.

Clint looked at her with a mildly insulted expression. Of course he was jealous, and it annoyed him immensely. One thing was to hate someone—being jealous was something else entirely. "Is that how you pass the time, then?" He didn't even try to mask the borderline angry undertone. 

Natasha knew he wasn't requesting an honest answer. He wanted her to disprove the images currently passing through his mind. "It happened once. I had a moment of weakness."

Jarvis spoke. "Agent Romanov, Mr. Stark is requesting your presence in the basement." 

She gave Clint a look of hurtfulness and regret. "Don't push people away, Clint. I'll listen." She departed, riding the elevator down alone to let her words soak in. What had she been thinking, sleeping with Loki? It hadn't been tender, it hadn't been comforting. It had been bordering on forceful and violent and non-consensual on Loki's part but she hadn't cared. To be fair, after a while, Loki had stopped protesting. 

**Author's Note:**

> In the event you like this - don't worry, there's more! A lot more.   
> If you don't, well, then I can't force you to read it, can I? 
> 
> What can I say, Norimn and I had fun, and were slowly establishing our style of roleplaying.


End file.
